


The Year of the False Spring

by MaarioNaharis



Series: Of Songs and Dreams [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Drama, F/M, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Not Canon Compliant, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Pre-Canon, R plus L equals J, Requited Love, Robert's Rebellion, Romance, Tourney at Harrenhal, Year of the False Spring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:03:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8575819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaarioNaharis/pseuds/MaarioNaharis
Summary: The singers love to sing of good men forced to go outside the law to fight some wicked lord, yet not all songs are sung true. We all heard the stories. How the beautiful noble Rhaegar Targaryen had stolen our King’s lady love from under his nose. Did numerous vile things to her. How Robert started a war to get back his beloved; slew the Last Dragon. Yet, she died anyway. That’s what the bards will tell you. Just how beautifully tragic it was when it was anything but. Within every song you hear, there’s a speckle of real truth hidden within the lies we desperately want to believe. You think you know a story. But you only know how it ends. To get to the heart of the story, you must go back to the beginning.





	1. Amidst Grief and Sorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar laments and muses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gorged on grief at Summerhall, I need none of yours

_**Summerhall, Rhaegar; 279 AC** _

The moon and stars seemed their brightest today. Looking at them remind him much of his boyhood. 

After reading tome after tome, he would gaze up at the stars. 

He could stare at the night sky more than any interesting book. 

Often at times, when she could, his mother Rhaella would join him in observing the heavens. When he was still a boy; his mother would tell him how the stars where the last remaining dragons were far away.

 

_ “They are gold and the lights are their scales and when you see a shooting star, that is the dragon breathing fire.” _

_ “Mother will the dragons ever come back?” _

_ “I don’t know my sweet.” Rhaella had told her son. _

_ “I want a dragon.” Rhaegar declared. _

_ Rhaella smiled at her son. “You don’t need one dearest. For you are a dragon.” _

 

Yet, he couldn't help but feel that there was some truth to that. The embers that burned down the castle of Summerhall had supposedly been the result of King Aegon V's attempt to hatch dragons. The King himself died, his foolhardy son the Prince of Dragonflies, and his best friend and truest knight, Ser Duncan the Tall of Flea Bottom. They had all died and he had been born just outside as the blazing inferno brought the once lovely castle to the ruin it is now. 

As he reminisced, he wondered how it would be like if he could have met his grandfather, The Unlikely. The king who was more of the people than the royals. Would he give him sound advice as to what it means to rule? 

Daeron was certainly someone he could count on. He knows more of the smallfolk than he did. He took more liberties as the second son of House Targaryen. Sweet Shaena could provide wise counsel when she wanted to. Although, her new husband will likely do that for him as well. He had to admit that he was quite fond of the Celtigar heir. Aemma could as well in time. Jaehaerys and Viserys were much too young to be considered for any position. Jaehaerys had the roguishness of The Rogue Prince himself as well as the skill of either Daemon Blackfyre or Aemon the Dragonknight if Willem Darry is correct. 

One thing is certain; the illusion of power and the use of fear cannot be certain to hold onto or gain power. He may not have been in this world for as long as Tywin Lannister or his father but even a blind man can see the blatant ambitions Tywin wants. He ruled his lands by fear and wanted more prominence to his house if possible. Mayhaps Father wasn't so mad in denying Tywin what he wanted; for either his daughter to be his queen or a princess for his son. 

And Father will keep denying that to the man he once called his most trusted and best friend. He denied Lady Cersei to be his bride and denied Shaena the honour of marrying Jaime Lannister. When Tywin even suggested that Cersei marry Daeron, Aerys Targaryen flat out laughed and denied him the son he is most proud of. Not that he cared for his father's approval. 

Those two will be the bane of the realm. Father believes himself to be a dragon wishing to incinerate his enemies, while the mighty Twyin belieives himself to be the proud and noble lion, Both of them will bring upon destruction if it meant sitting the Iron Throne. 

They forget that I am a dragon too. But I will not seek to destroy everything. Perhaps, a dragon is not simply meant to destroy; to bring Fire and Blood. Mayhaps, even a ferocious creature like a dragon can bring peace.


	2. Into the Kingswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No man's gold was from them,  
> nor any maiden's hand.  
> Oh, the brothers of the Kingswood,  
> that fearsome outlaw band

_**Arthur Dayne; Kingswood, 280 AC** _

Arthur pressed the bay charger faster. His retinue, which included his sworn brother, Ser Barristan Selmy, rode with him. The white banner of the Kingsguard streamed behind him, moving like a cloud in the gusty wind. The weather had been fierce; the wind from the Stormlands had caused trouble with the ships coming into port. One galley had crashed and the captain had been burnt on His Grace's orders for that. It was the Queen who suffered though. If Arthur closed his eyes, he could still smell and even see the flesh burning and the blood boiling. He could hear the Queen's sobs in the night, and the Kings cackles and groans as he took his due. He saw Rhaella the morning after as he escorted Her Grace and the younger princes to the Sept of Baelor. He did not miss her wince as she climbed into her litter, nor the look in her eyes. Sadness and hatred would be expected; the emptiness he found instead was unnerving.

_Her eyes have been closed for years. They must be to have a husband like Aerys._

"Look sharp. You too, Lannister," Arthur said to the group. He was unsure why Lord Sumner had brought  _both_ squires. Surely one was enough. But, sooner the boys would be men and expecting their knighthoods. They'd need a taste of battle, particularly as Jaime Lannister would one day become one of the great Lords of Westeros. The other one not so much; Merrett Frey looked more suited to be a part of a motley rather than a knight. But being branded by the notorious Wenda the White Fawn just has that effect for that loathsome muttonhead.

The Baratheon boy was certainly different. His eyes were ablaze beneath the typically cool blue of his Baratheon eyes. That neat mop of coal-black hair was a bit messy and now hung over his left eye. With the way he was gritting his teeth and glowering, he couldn't blame the boy for being so angry. The young man's wife Lady Jeyne Swann had been taken captive by the Brotherhood along with her septa. His hand over the hilt of his blade, waiting in anticipation. Vengeance is as good as any motivator; especially with a lady love involved

He'd noticed Jaime looking around warily. He couldn't blame the boy; he remembered his first ride to battle. Gut wrenching nerves took over, before the battle fever set it. Arthur sighed; he'd been given command to get rid of this Kingswood Brotherhood. The final straw for the King had been when Ser Gerold Hightower had been wounded protecting the Princess Elia's party.

They could hear the camaraderie of men up ahead. He urged his horse on faster when they came across the Brotherhood harassing a merchant and his group of travelers. Arthur charged, drawing Dawn and knocking one man on the head with the hilt of the greatsword. One man swung as Arthur rode past; he missed. Arthur parried the blow, turning his horse sharply and lopped the man's head off with a clean sweep. He was saddened to see it was a boy, a lanky-looking youth who'd probably never had a proper sword fighting lesson before. Theirs were the worst deaths.

He saw Barristan leap from his horse and kill two men in the space of three swings of his sword. Barristan was a true knight. Honourable and loyal to the bone; he'd die for his King. Then again, so would Arthur, even after all the horror he'd seen. For that had been expected of him. And Arthur would always due his duty. 

He quickly saw the glowering youth of Stannis Baratheon facing Oswyn Longneck the Thrice-Hanged. Both matched each other in movement until the Baratheon sliced the man across the chest and ultimately lopped off his head. Long neck no more. From what he saw then, he appeared to engage in combat with Big Belly Ben.

He heard a yell, a shout or a curse or a scream of pain, he could not tell. Battle fever had set in him. While he kept his honour, everything slowed down to mesmerizing, slow movements. It was like watching snow fall, slowly, then melting all at once when a sword got through to the heart.

After cutting down his fifth man, he caught eye of Jaime Lannister in combat with the leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood. The Smiling Knight, they'd named him. Arthur watched for a moment, Dawn slack at his side, glistening softly in the late afternoon light.

He watched Jaime parry blow after blow and swing at the Knights head a few times. Jaime was undoubtedly skilled, but the Knight had experience on him. It was fairly easy to guess a squire's moves, particularly if they are not battle honed.

Arthur moved over, pushing Jaime out of the way to safety before parrying the Knights thrust. Arthur charged at him, aiming for the shoulder. The Smiling Knight carried it and pushed the thrust away before he attempted a high swing at Arthur's head. The Knight was experienced, but Arthur was better. Dawn's swing broke the Smiling Knight's sword near the hilt. The Knight stumbled as the weight loss affected his balance. He took a moment to recover.

"Go on and get yourself another sword," Arthur spoke, eyes always on the Knight. "I shan't fight an unarmed opponent."

"Very well, ser. But, it's that white sword of yours I want."

"Then you shall have it, ser." The Smiling Knight now had his sword, and the duel began again. Parry, block, thrust, carry, bull charge; on it went until Arthur saw an opening and Dawn went through mail at the man's armpit. He brought Dawn down and around to end the pain. His head rolled to the side, curling against the limp body as the blood pooled around it.

Arthur paused a moment to assess the situation. Much of the Brotherhood were dead; Oswyn decapitated, Big Belly Ben's guts splayed across the field, Fletcher Dick's eyes pierced with arrows, and Simon Toyne bore a large gash reaching from his face to the base of his neck. Wenda likely disappeared, leaving behind Fletcher Dick's apprentice Ulmer of the Kingswood. Arthur had lost 5 men; Ser Barristan was injured, though it could be easily tended to Grand Maester Pycelle. Stannis and his wife Jeyne clutched each other as tightly as possible. He had heard that the middle Baratheon bore no emotions whatsoever, yet he looked on the verge of crying. Other injuries and complaints ventured from exhaustion to a possible loss of limb. Arthur would ache in the morning, but he'd done his duty.

He took a moment to look at the Lannister boy; he was tall, comely and strong for his age. Undoubtedly, an exceptional fighter  not surprising when you consider where he came from. He was currently piling armour from the dead up. Arthur had made him wear armour from the armoury, instead of his own. Too ostentatious for the job ahead. While Lannister had frowned, he's conceded with some grace. He did beg to be allowed to use his own sword, which Arthur allowed.

"Lannister," Arthur called. "Over here." Jaime came at once, all eagerness with a shy look on his face.  _Does the boy know the meaning of shy?_  

"Clean your sword, and kneel before me."

Jaime's eyes went wide. He hurriedly cleaned his sword on the grass, giving it a last rub on his tunic. Arthur had already sheathed Dawn, but Jaime's sword would work just as well. Taking it from the boy, he cleared his throat as the party gathered round in a circle. "Jaime of House Lannister," he spoke clearly and loudly, not something he'd often have to do. "For your bravery in the Battle of the Kigswood Brotherhood, and your skill at combat," a touch on the right shoulder with the blade. "In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave." The sword moves from right shoulder to left. "In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just." Right shoulder. "In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent." The left. "In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women." He lowered the sword, and planted it in the ground. Jaime's head was bowed. "Arise, Ser Jaime of House Lannister."

The boy rose a man, an awkward smile on his face. He seemed all of a sudden gangly and uncomfortable on his feet, as if he'd realized what the meaning of knighthood meant to him; the burden on his shoulders. The other men in the group applauded, clapped him on the back, hooted and hurrahed to the cries of the "Lion of the Rock" or the "Lion of Lannister".

Selmy approached him quietly, a slight limp to his walk. "He'll do well."

He then took note how in spite of his injury, he was making his way to Stannis Baratheon, who still tightly held his lady love. He's going to knight him. It would be considered an honur to be knighted as someone as strong, brave and true as Ser Barristan. But he then took note of Jaime, who still had his somewhat shy smile yet shined from the praise he'd gotten from the others. He'll do wonders one day.

"In time, Ser Barristan. In time."


	3. Nightmares and Bliss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and I are more than brother and sister. We are one person in two bodies.

**Cersei; King's Landing, 280 AL.**

_The vivid smell of the dank herbs filled her nose; it smelled of rot and dirt and certainly not of nice herbs. For some reason, Cersei had thought this visit would be like the visit to the other fortune tellers she'd come across at the annual Lannisport fair her father let her attend. Those fortune tellers would wear silk, their look was foreign, probably from the Free Cities. They waved incense and sweet smelling sticks around her, and told her that she would become a great beauty and marry a great man â€“ one had hinted at a Prince of a sad beauty. For once in her life, Cersei had acted like a child and squealed in delight. Jaime had rolled his eyes and her father had merely twitched his lips in amusement. Her mother had laughed along with her son and taken joy in the delight of her daughter._

_This visit was different. The woman was old and ugly; she had large bags under her eyes, a freakish purple in colour. Her skin had a light coloured tint to it underneath the darkness of her skin, and her lips were dark blue, cracked. She continually licked them as if that could cure them. She was not from Westeros, but Cersei could not say where she was from._

_Gazing at the woman, the young girl felt a shiver go down her spine._ You are a lioness. You are not scared,  _she thought. That gave her strength. She heard a wail from behind her and Jayne Farman ran from the tent in fear. Cersei huffed indignantly. She still had Melara with her. She and Melara cast a glance at each other; Cersei saw fear in her eyes, but Melara was brave enough to stay. Melara was a pretty girl, the same age as Cersei, with long brown hair and big brown eyes and a kind face. She would never compare to the Lannister beauty though._

_Cersei glanced at the fortune teller. Her eyes were onyx black, the iris looking yellow. She supposed that was with age. "You are a fortune teller?" She asked, pleased her voice did not break._

" _I am. Who asks?" The woman they dubbed 'Maggy the Frog' really was ignorant. Instead of listening to her and addressing Lord Tywin's daughter properly, she turned her head down and fiddled with some ornaments._

" _I want to know my future, what will be made of Lord Tywin's flesh," she demanded, her green eyes narrowing to slits; like a lioness hunting her prey._

_One thing could be said for Maggy the Frog; she looked like one when she laughed. What was left of her chin retreated into her neck. She looked like she had five chins or one neck that resembled a tree trunk when she threw her head back to laugh her throaty laugh. "You throw that man's name around like you Lannister's throw your gold around. Your future is not one I'd like to read; it is a horror, and would entertaining to watch it unfold."_

_Cersei would have growled if she had forgotten herself. Instead, she drew her ten year old self up to her fullest height and put on a commanding voice. "I demand to know what my future holds. My father promised me the hand of the Crown Prince, and he is here with the King for a tourney. You **WILL**  tell me, or I'll have your head on a spike outside Casterly Rock."_

_Maggy said nothing, but looked at Cersei curiously. Finally, she sighed. "Come here then, sit and hold out your hand." Cersei did as she bid, with Melara following suit. Cersei stiffened when she saw the woman bring out a dagger. She kept her hand still as the woman drew a drop of blood and gazed at the knife as she brought it over the candle. She was muttering in another language and she dropped the blood gathered on the steel onto the flame. Melara jumped back at the reaction, but Cersei remained where she was. "You have three questions you can ask me, child."_

" _When will I wed the prince?"_

" _Never. You will wed the king."_

" _I will be queen, though?"_

" _Aye. Queen you shall be... Until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear."_

_Cersei had one more question left. She knew her duty as a wife. "Will the king and I have children?"_

" _Oh, aye. Six-and-ten for him, and three for you. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you." A sadistic smile crossed the woman's face. Cersei knew the meaning of that word._ Tyrion,  _she thought bitterly. He'd already killed their mother, now he would do away with her at some point?_

_Melara looked on eagerly, almost bouncing in her seat with anticipation. "Can you tell me mine?"_

" _Certainly. Your hand, my child," Maggy said, all sadism gone from her face. She took the blood from the new gash on Melara's hand and dropped it into the flame. Cersei's hand was still on the table, but Melara had moved her hand to her lap, concealing it. "Three questions you may ask of me, child."_

"  _Will I marry Jaime?" Cersei's head turned sharply. She knew of Melara's infatuation with her twin and the directness of the question worried her. Jaime was_ hers.

"  _Not Jaime, nor any other man. Worms will have your maidenhead. Your death is here tonight, little one. Can you smell her breath? She is very close." Cersei's hand lashed out and threw a potion in the woman's face. Cersei fled quickly, Melara straight after her. They heard the old crone screeching in her language. She could keep her prophecies; she was Cersei of House Lannister. She was a lioness._

Cersei awoke in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. All she could see in front of her was the old witch's face with her sadistic smile and frog like neck billowing as she laughed. She clutched her bed sheet closer to her.  _You are a lioness of the Rock. You are not afraid._ She left her bed and grabbed a glass of water from the marble polished table. Her hands shook as she poured the jug and downed the tepid liquid. She wrung her hands before she was aware of what she was doing. Dropping her hands to her side, she fidgeted with her shift. She tired of that as well. She made her way to the large window in her chambers and pulled the curtain back a little. She could see the first lights of day beginning to creep over the horizon. She sighed softly. The view out of her window left her to gaze at the port of Blackwater Bay, the harbour and the Narrow Sea. It was a lovely view, for a city over-crowded and polluted.

She would not sleep this close to dawn. She wandered around her room in the Tower of the Hand; past the four poster b ed with its lion drapes, crimson quilt, and golden pillows and throw-overs and oak bedframe. The room was decorated in pale gold to compliment the red of the rock walls. The hearth had nearly burned out. Shaped like the open jaws of a lion on her father's orders, its mane flickering upwards covering the main body of the chimney in her room, it covered most of the west wall of her room, and her chamber was on the South Western side of the castle.

She paced restlessly, her feet brushing the soft wool of the crimson rug with a pride of lions on it; 4 lions. Two females and two males. She'd had it put in her room on her father's orders after her brothers birth, after her mother's death. She had one like it back in Casterly Rock. Tyrion had one in his room. Jaime had refused to have one, telling his father that Tyrion was a lion as well, even if he was a little one. Cersei had said that Tyrion should be a maggot filled lion.

Then she remembered,  _Ser_ Jaime Lan nister would be passing through the Capital to visit. She smiled wryly at that. She had missed her brother, but father had been making her attend days with the other ladies and the Princess Elia. Not that Elia had been around much with the birth of her daughter.

Hours passed, and dawn turned into morning, the sun shining bright on the Blackwater. She waited impatiently for the arrival of her brother. She hadn't seen him for years; he'd been squiring or in Casterly Rock, while she'd been here in the Capital with her father while he served as Hand of the King.

"Cersei," she heard a soft murmur behind her. She turned, a smile on her face and saw her other half standing there. Jaime looked resplendent in new armour; a golden lion on crimson. She ran to him and hugged him, her hands twining around his neck and ruffling themselves in his hair. Jaime's hands slid down her body to rest at her hips. "You've grown more beautiful since the last time I saw you."

"When was that? It's been too long," Cersei spoke back to him softly, cupping his face in her hands. "You stand taller. Has knighthood gone to your head already? You've had two moons to adjust to the new title." Venom had leaked its way into her voice.

"Still unhappy about being  _Lady_ Cersei  _Lannister_  instead of  _Princess_ Cersei  _Targaryen_? I never knew you to be the jealous type." Jaime turned out of her embrace and ambled his way over to her sofa, where he sprawled out. "Joining me?"

Cersei turned on her heel to close the door, her crimson skirts swirling around her. "I haven't missed you that much, brother."

"I always knew when you were lying. I still do. There's a wet patch on your dress." Cersei looked at the belly of her dress, catching Jaime smirking at her. "By your cunt," he drawled.

"Now who's missed who the most?" Still, Cersei walked over to him, her emerald eyes locked onto his as he watched her every move. "I'v e been so lonely here, Jaime. I need you to keep me company."

"You know father will never allow me to stay here. I come here in a fleeting visit. About to rescue my fair maiden from a night of loneliness."

"Only a night? I need you. Father is always busy, and I've never known how to talk to him. And the ladies are all fluttering about Elia while she  _still_ recovers from labour. It shouldn't take this long for her to recover from the birthing bed."

"Why don't you come back to Casterly Rock and ask our lady mother the same thing? You hate the result of the last labour she endured."

"Tyrion is a monster. He killed her. Mother, dead for him. He's a deformed-"

"He's your brother, Cersei!" Jaime shoved her arm angrily. "He's a smart lad, and wants to know all about our family. He doesn't know why people who should love him despise him so. And I'm not being the one to explain this to him."

Cersei glared at his exasperated face. He looked disappointed in her. She had a right to hate the creature that took her mother away. And despite what the Martell's thought, Tyrion was not a baby. Not a normal baby. "I don't want to fight," she said meekly, moving to sit on the edge of her bed. Jaime came to her, as he always did. He took her in his arms, her head against his stomach, his hands entwining themselves in her hair.

"I don't want to fight either," he sighed, his calloused hands softly rubbing her scalp. Her hands knotted themselves around his waist as she breathed his scent; sea salt, sweat and honey. Jaime was always fond of honey on his food.

"I've been praying to the Warrior that you'd get here safe."

"Why do you need the Warrior?"

"I don't have a knight to protect me, to keep me company here."

"You have me." He bent down and pressed his lips to hers. Their mouths moved in tandem, before he grew more urgent. His tongue swept across her lips and her mouth opened for him, their to ngues entwining in a quick, vicious dance.

Her hands tugged at his tunic, pulling it upwards he had changed into simpler clothes to visit his sister while his hands urgently clawed at her dress, pulling at the lace and tugging it down over her form.

They tumbled into the bed; he kissed every part of her skin as she writhed and groaned in passion underneath him. His lips trailed down his neck, to her collarbone, to her pale perfect breasts. One hand reached underneath to hold her back, the other hand trailed down to her sex and felt the wet patch there amongst the golden curls at the apex of her thighs. He groaned as he inserted two fingers inside her. She writhed underneath him, panting his name, and pulling on his hair.

He groaned her name as he bit into her neck, before he moved his hand away and hovered over her, kissing her briefly as he lined his hips with hers and thrust deep.

He collapsed on top of her some minutes later, panting, breat hless, his body slick and smooth with sweat against hers. He rolled off of her to lie next to her, one hand splayed on her stomach, drawing meaningless patterns.

Cersei knew that to get what she wanted she'd have to act the innocent. She bit her lower lip and turned her emerald eyes to her twin, her hand resting on his forearm. "Jaime... we can be together. You can take the white-"

"Father would never allow it; I'm his heir."

"You are  _my_ twin my other half. Please, I need you. The old man is near his deathbed, they'll need someone young to replace him. Who's better than the Lion of Lannister?"

"I am a Lannister, not a knight of the Kingsguard. My place is at Casterly Rock."

"Remember before I left? You said your place was by me." Tears filled Cersei's eyes as she trailed her lips over her brother's body, coming to straddle him. She curled in close to him, her breasts pressing against his chest. Jaime groaned and lifted her hips up.

That night, after the formalities of dinner with father were complete, Cersei found herself being pulled into an alcove by a strong arm. Jaime. "I'll do it. I'll take the white. For you. For us."


	4. Wolf's Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon thinks on his actions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still remember the look of my maiden's blood on his cock the night he claimed me. I think Brandon liked the sight as well.

**Brandon Stark; Rydstrong Hall, Godswood, 280 AL**

Brandon Stark, eldest son and heir of Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, was a nervous wreck. Why? Because Barbrey Ryswell, his lover, was giving birth to his firstborn child. The screams were driving him mad, but the Maester had shoved him out of the birthing room; so he could do nothing, but think and pace. So he had gone to the Godswood to do just that.

 _If we were married, I could offer much more than the dishonour of baring my bastard'_ Brandon thought bitterly

 _Honour!_  He was starting to sound like his brother. Naive little Ned, who thought the world revolved around honor and fair dealings. A black and white world where evil was punished and good was rewarded.

Brandon knew better. He may be the "Wild Wolf" of the pack, but he knew how the world really worked. Power; power was what mattered. Those with it prospered, and those without lived at the whims of those who had it.

Even he, the heir to the Lord of Winterfell, was powerless in this situation.

He muttered angrily beneath his breath. "Father has to have that bloody Tully girl as the future Lady of Winterfell! He needs an alliance with House Tully and whatever other House of Southron fools he marries Lyanna into. What good has the South ever done us! It would serve them all right if I simply told Lord Hoster to bugger off

But no, he couldn't do that. As angry and wild as Brandon Stark was, he was still loyal to his father and would do what was best for House Stark and the North.

 _'But is having some Tully half-breed as the future Lord of Winterfell what is really best for the North?'_  He thought to himself, skeptically. Tullys were well-known for putting their heart before their heads, after all.

Brandon snorted. "I'm no better though," he muttered, "I put my heart or my prick before my head almost every day!"

Still, the thought was there. The doubt that such a mix of blood lines was a good idea. His father had always said that a true Lord of Winterfell, a true Stark, puts the good of the North before everything else. Before family, friends, or personal desires...

_Brandon could still see his father in his mind when he broke the momentous news._

_In truth, it wasn't news at all. Brandon should have been anticipating this. Rickard had been brokering a betrothal with the Tullys and various other Southern prospects for the past few years. But even that did not mitigate the shock and turmoil that followed. Everything is changed._

_Brandon thought it a touch strange, and he asked his father, "Why a girl from the South? Why not here, why not a Northern girl?"_

_Lord Stark's gray eyes met his son's. They were cold and austere, they were his father's, and they were a mirror to Brandon's. "By marrying a house of the South, we become stronger. And especially in these trying times, we need all the strength we can get. When you become Lord of Winterfell and warden of the North, our joint strength will be indestructible,_ _he crisply explained._

_"Are the Northern houses not strong?"_

_"They are.:_ _Rickard wore an understanding smirk. "_ _But the South holds more opportunities."_

_Of course, Brandon dryly thought. For your opportunism._

_He felt his temper quickly running its course. "My sons will surely be weak."_

_Rickard's voice was sharp. "No Stark offspring is weak, my son, not even those mixed with Southerners. And the Tullys are a strong and resilient house. I'm not marrying you to the spawn of the Reach or the Lannisters, who are too proud for their own good. I have chosen very carefully for you, and I could not have chosen better."_

_"You could have chosen better. You could have chosen a woman of the North."_

_Brandon bowed his head in shame and apology, the emotion and sudden shift in reality finally overwhelming him. "Forgive me, father. I speak out of turn."_

_Rickard's hand was gentle on his son's head. "There are years yet. She is only twelve and Lord Tully tells me she is beautiful as a rose. Her beauty and intelligence shall flourish with time."_

_Brandon noted with a creeping sense of consternation that he did not care for any of this, and his hardened jaw checked the words he wanted to recklessly yell out. His clenched fists harnessed his frustration_

_What do I care for?_

Lyanna and the rest of his pack was the one thing he cared for. He still recalled the first time he and his father had went to Riverrun to meet the Tullys. Lady Catelyn Tully was scarcely thirteen years old but certainly pretty. Perhaps things in the South aren't so bad, he had thought. And as he thought, the south scarcely wanted to do a thing with the North. He still remembered how he had to coax Catelyn after the  _incident_. But it was also her fault for trying to mess with a she-wolf.  
Brandon could still remember laughing himself silly as Lyanna had burned off nearly all of Catelyn's beautiful auburn hair. She nearly looked like an egg waiting to crack with a fringe of auburn curls on her head. But that's a problem the south has always had; too high and mighty.

He then reflected on this when he stayed his nights at the Rills.

He had been sixteen and yet unaccustomed to duty. No, that was wrong, he'd known duty his whole life. He was his father's heir, he was destined to become Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, he had a responsibility to icy, sprawling lands he and all his bannermen call home. Why, then, had he been so disturbed by the news of his betrothal to Catelyn Tully?

Lord Ryswell was more than happy to welcome him. Brandon knew the man nurtured a hope that he would marry his daughter.  _Too late for that now._

_"Do you even love this girl, Brandon?!"_

_"She's little more than a child."_

_"I must say, it's a touch strange your father is marrying you to a girl of a Southern house when your father, and his father, and his father's father before him only wed the daughters of their own bannermen."_

_"He is an ambitious man."_

_"And you're to be his pawn?"_ _Her grin was wolfish. "_ _You don'_ _t quite like that, do you? But it makes no matter. What are Rills to rivers anyway?"_

_"Oh, come off it, Barb! I'd pick you would that I could."_

_"You only say that because my teats stand before you"_

_"Its the truth. What has the south ever done for the North?"_

_"So you have me as your lady of Winterfell?"_

_"There's just one problem. I know you too well Barbrey. You're no lady"_

His thoughts and pacing were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. Startled, Brandon turned to see Lord Rodrik Ryswell, Barbrey's father, standing there with a tired, but happy look on his face.

Brandon perked up at the look on Lord Ryswell's face. "She's alright? The baby is fine?" He asked frantically, worry for Barbrey and his child coming back to the fore of his mind.

Rodrik smiled and nodded. "They're fine, my boy," he said soothingly, "but she's been asking for you. Might be, you should go see her and the babe." Rodrik got a teasing look in his eye, and continued, "Unless you'd prefer to tear your hair out, that is."

Snorting, he slapped the man on the shoulder and strided toward the room that held Barbrey in it, Lord Rodrik on his heels.

Arriving at the door, he threw it open and barreled his way inside. Brandon stopped then, the sight in front of him taking his breath away.

Barbrey looked up from the child in her arms, _his child_ , and smiled. An amused twinkle entering her eyes was visible, something that always appeared when he did something foolish.

After a moment of silence, spent staring at the sight before him, he stepped closer. "Is that...?" He couldn't quite form the words for what he wanted to say.

Giving a tired smirk, Barbrey inclined her head a little. "Would you care to see, my Lord?" She murmured softly, beckoning him closer, "I present your son, Rodrik Snow."

Brandon heard a chuckle behind him, likely Lord Rodrik being amused that the child had been named for him. Brandon ignored him and sat at the edge of Barbrey's bed.

Taking the boy,  _his boy_ , out of his mother's arms, Brandon could barely believe his eyes. Now he understood why his Lord father's eyes always lit up with pride when he sees his children walk into the halls of Winterfell. It's an amazing feeling, knowing that he helped create such a little wonder.

Barbrey broke Brandon from his thoughts. "He looks like you, Brandon," she whispered softly, playing with Little Rodrik's small mess of brown hair, "Like a true Lord of Winterfell."

Those words made something in Brandon perk up, causing him to look more closely at the little bundle in his arms. Examining the boy closely, he could see she was right, he looked just like him; brown hair and long face included. Then Brandon shifted his focus to Rodrik's eyes, and his mind stopped.

They were hard, steel grey eyes that stopped his thoughts in their tracks and froze his body in place. They reminded Brandon of his father, Lord Rickard Stark, who was said to have stared down every lord in the North and terrified them all into compliance, all from a look from his hard, steel grey eyes.  _This is a true Stark of Winterfell,_  Brandon thought, and wished that this boy could be his heir.

It was then that he remembered what he had considered in the Godswood, that a true Stark put the good of the North before his personal desires.

 _But what if your personal desires match what is best for the North_ , he wondered silently. _What if, I could get what I want and do what was best for my House's subjects too?_ '

For now, all he could hope is that his own boy, Little Roddy, would grow up to be a fine Stark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'The passages in italics this chapter are lifted from and based on antigones' fic, Winter's End, which you can read here https://archiveofourown.org/works/1870911


	5. The Sun and the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon must have three heads

_**Rhaegar; King's Landing, 280 AL** _

He sat on the bed, looking at the babe cradled in his wife's arms. A little girl. A Princess of the realm. A daughter of the Sun. A daughter of the Dragon. "The dragon must have three heads," he muttered to no one and everyone.

His wife looked up. She was a beauty, to be sure, but  _frail._ It had been over a month since Rhaenys' birth and Elia Martell was still abed, ill and recovering. He imagined any birth would leave a woman frail, but surely after several days, they'd be up and on the road to recovery. Not Elia though. She looked as ghastly and as worn out as she did on the night she birthed the babe. Her hair hung limp and lank from her head, falling loosely to her shoulders and beyond to her lower waist.  Her eyes glistened with love for the babe in her arms, but the dark circles underneath suggested her weariness was still ongoing. Her lips were pursed in concentration, her nostrils flared with every breath and her body seemed to rock with subtle winces. Her skin, normally clear with a slight tint to her cheeks from laughter, as Ashara always made Elia laugh, was covered in a slight sheen of sweat.The normally olive complexion that the sun blessed her with now looked pale and sallow.

"Will she be well enough to birth another?" Rhaegar asked. Some would call him insensitive; Lewyn was one of them, judging by the glare he threw towards the Crown Prince. Rhaegar knew he was only concerned for his niece so his folly was immediately forgiven. It took a moment to realise the real reason behind the glare. Lewyn was Dornish. Elia was Dornish. According to their customs, Rhaenys was heir to the throne after Rhaegar. Not here though. Not in the capitol. A son was needed.

"Difficult to say, Your Highness. She could, if she was given ample time to recover her strength and care for the princess," repeated Maester Caleotte in his Dornish drones. At least Elia and Lewyn had been highborn enough to not have the dulcet tones the commoners in Dorne did, the Maester, however, was a different story. He was sent at the behest of Prince Doran, as he had been in the service of the Martells for a number of years. He knew Elia's frailties the way the Maesters in the city did not. Her brother had all but commanded that he be Elia's personal Maester during her pregnancy. Rhaegar had allowed it, only because seeing Pycelle insulted was a comedic sight for the Kingsguard to indulge in.

_The Prince strode into the hall, embroidered in suns and spears, oranges and golds and yellows. A tall man, broad of shoulder but with a kind face ambled behind him. Rhaegar did not miss the limp of the man. He watched his father's face as the King sat on the throne. Thankfully, no one had been executed today, he didn't think that Oberyn Martell would like the thought of his heavily pregnant sister witnessing such things. Rhaegar had already disappointed his father this morning by giving Elia his council seat to sit in:_

" _Only those permitted by ME are allowed to sit there, boy," his father had growled. "And you grant the Sun the seat of the Dragon!"_

" _Elia is my wife, and bears my child within her. Need I remind you, father, that the child will be a dragon," Rhaegar spoke quietly, he had no need to raise his voice, as he helped Elia into her seat, one hand resting on her shoulder._

" _A child of_ diluted _Dragon's blood!"_

" _Need I remind you, Your Grace, that while the Dragon may be the most powerful of all creatures, that all creatures bow before the Sun?" Elia had spoken with that steely gaze fixed on the King. For once in his reign, King Aerys had the notion to keep his mouth shut. Rhaegar had sighed quietly. There would be punishment for that slight._

_Rhaegar chanced a glance at his mother. Viserys, a boy nearly five was seated on her lap, playing with a model of Balerion the Black Dread. Rhaegar smiled sadly; that had been his toy once. He'd dug that up specially when he found out that his newest sibling was to be another boy. His mother, while still beautiful, had a faraway glance in her violet eyes. "Nothing but dutiful, this queen of ours," Ser Oswell Whent had once said about the queen. Rhaegar couldn't disagree._

_Daeron, Shaena and Aemma looked at their niece with such wonder and amazement. Shaena herself was mesmerized by how tiny the babe is. Coming close to term with her her own pregnancy, it may be more than_ _curiosity. Jaehaerys quickly asked if he had a new sparring partner, which made him and others laugh. The boy has only just discovered a love or swordplay that paralleled Daeron's tenacity when he was little older than him._

" _I would like to ask the Kings Grace if he would allow our childhood Maester to attend to my sister Elia when her time comes to birth the little one," Oberyn of Dorne had declared. It was phrased as a question, but the court apart from his father knew that Oberyn had already won. He was famous for getting what he wanted, and he wanted nothing more than his sister to be well. Seven Hells, the man had begotten a bastard daughter on a septa!_

_A year younger than his sister, Oberyn was a fearsome man. His reputation throughout the kingdoms grew year on year. He had an olive complexion, with luscious dark hair and eyes that matched his sisters; dark brown yet bordering on black. But, while Elia's eyes were kind and alight with humour, Oberyn's were dark and mistrustful, and always watching. Viper's eyes. He had a dagger on his hip. Prince Lewyn had pleaded with him to remove it. Oberyn had answered that he was part of the Royal family by marriage “ why would he harm his kin? " It had taken Ser Arthur's intervention to stop Lewyn from "teaching" his nephew a lesson in courtesy. Nevertheless, Old Ser Gerold Hightower stood directly in Oberyn's path._

" _We have the_ Grand  _Maester here, Prince Oberyn," the king replied. "A learned man, and not a Sand."_

_Oberyn stood his ground. "Pycelle may be Grand Maester, but this was Elia's childhood Maester. He knows her-"_

" _Aye, he knows her body well enough!" The king guffawed. Prince Lewyn clenched a fist, Arthur Dayne visibly squirmed; Dornishmen through and through. The white cloak has not changed them. He knew that Arthur deeply cared for Elia as they'd been childhood friends. And if anyone made a slight about her, Lewyn was quick to tell them otherwise._

" _I'd much rather he treat her during her pregnancy, than have that old man's gnarled fingers on her thighs," Oberyn countered. Rhaegar saw the hint of a smirk appear on Elia's lips. Oswell Whent had to feign a cough to hide his amusement._

" _An outrage! Your Grace should have this man thrown in the black cells for that slight. I would never harm her Highness or think of her otherwise!" Pycelle insisted, his beard quivering with rage._

" _I'm not_ just _a man, I am a Prince of Dorne. And you would do well to remember where the future queen came from," Oberyn replied. "I am aware that my sister is a frail and gentle person. I only want the best for her."_

" _Then it shall happen," replied Rhaegar. This could turn ugly, and the last thing he needed was his wife's brother being burned to death. Oberyn cast a small smirk his way, but Rhaegar was already helping Elia up to rest in their chambers._

Rhaegar was brought back from his thoughts of that meeting almost three moons ago by a gurgling baby making a fuss. He glanced over to his wife and daughter and smiled softly. "My prince, I believe she wants her father." Elia smiled softly. He once again remembered why her brother called her the 'Sun of Dorne'. When her eyes were on Rhaenys', there was no one fairer than her.

He made his way over to the bed and scooped his daughter up from Elia's arms. Cradling her, he gazed down at her; she had the Dornish look about her. Except for her eyes, they were a blue-almost-violet colour. He moved over to the open arch window and looked out at Blackwater bay. "Everything West of here is your home; everything South to the Summer Sea is yours to explore; everything North of here to the Wall is yours to ride in." Though she would not rule in her own right, a match with another son could be made. He'd heard that Mace Tyrell had a young son, Willas. A match with those two could defuse the tensions between the Reach and Dorne, a feud lasting centuries. And mend the apparent loss caused by his previous generation; who had been promised to a Tyrell.

He looked out to the sunset with his child squirming in his arms while Elia drifted to sleep. He rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. "The dragon must have three heads, and you are the first, my sweet."

Then her took her close to the balcony, eyeing the stars. Never had they ever looked alive. 


	6. The White Bat of Harrenhal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tourney to end all tourneys

_**Oswell Whent 280** _

_"A tourney?" Harlan Grandison asked quizzically._

_"It is a bold move, that I know," Prirnce Rhaegar answered. "But it is the only way that I know of to gather so many high lords without raising my Father's suspicions."_

_"True," Jonothor Darry replied. "But we just had tourney last year in honor of Lord Steffon, to have another so soon -"_

_"Then we wait a year," Prince Rhaegar interrupted. "Ser Oswell has already spoken with his brother and Lord Whent has agreed to throw the tourney, we need only to tell him when."_

_"While I agree that something must be done about your father, are we sure that this would be such a wise course of action?" questioned the sweet soft voice of Lewyn Martell. "King Aerys will not simply yield. I see no recourse that does not end in bloodshed. The North has always done what is best for its people. That is why Torrhen Stark bent the knee to begin with."_

_"And was forever known as The King Who Knelt," Myles Mooton's deep, yet booming voice replied. "And his descendants have lived with it ever since. This is our chance. We cannot pass up such an opportunity when it presents itself to us."_

_"We all want this, my Prince, but Aerys - "_

_"Has not been the same since Duskendale," Ser Arthur interrupted. "He barely sleeps or eats. Refuses to leave the castle. Refuses to see anyone unless he sits in judgement of them. And surrounds himself with those who whisper poisons in his ear while plotting behind his back."_

_"Tywin Lannister rules the Throne and everyone knows it," Whent added. "He takes on more and more responsibility as time goes on. He is a good Hand, don't get me wrong, but he is ambitious."_

_"And prickly." Prince Rhaegar cleared his throat as he continued. "He does not take slights to his honor lightly, and everyone knows this as well. Father did him a great dishonor when he refused to marry me to his daughter Cersei, or even my brother Daeron. He even refused him Shaena's hand to his heir Jaime. And since Father returned from Duskendale, I fear his enmity has only grown. He may not remain Father's Hand for long and if Lord Tywin is no longer in service to the crown . . . "_

_"You really feel that Lord Tywin would plot against Aerys himself?" Harlan Grandison's wavering feeble voice interjected. "Would he be so bold?"_

_"If you need a reminder of what Tywin Lannister is capable of I would be glad to sing you The Rains of Castamere," Ser Arthur stated defiantly. "My Prince."_

_Prince Rhaegar gave a long sigh, "I have no doubt that while he acts as a dutiful Hand, he is simply waiting, biding his time to dispense his own brand of justice."_

_Lewyn's sweet soft voice spoke again full of fear, "All the more reason not to go through with this foolish plot! We do not need to give Tywin Lannister the means for his revenge."_

_"Nor do we want a damnable Lion sitting the Iron Throne!" Richard Lonmouth practically growled. "But that is what will happen, mark my words, if we do not remove Aerys, Tywin will."_

 

 

Along with Jonothor Darry, he rode with a large company; Targaryen soldiers, squires, a Maester, cooks, serving wenches, minstrels, bards and a drunk that had joined the party on the way. The drunk craved the attention of the White Knight every evening when camp was made and tried to ride by him when dawn crept up and the party set off again. He'd suffered the drunk for three long weeks since the party had left the Crownlands. His constant badgering and drunk babbles about besting him. Now he drank to deal with the humiliation of his incessant boasts.

Astride his stallion, Ser Oswell Whent rode at the front of the party, the white banner of the Kingsguard streaming on his right, the black bat of House Whent on his left. He hadn't visited home for near on five years. He thought on his brother and how he was called 'Old Lord Whent'; Oswell was twenty years his brothers junior  due to their father re-marrying after his first wife died after birthing one son and 3 daughters. His brother had already become a knight at the age of ten-and-nine when his mother fell pregnant with him. He had a loving family around him; there was no true resentment for their father re-marrying.

Harenhal was an intimidating castle. It had been the seat of House Whent for near on half a century. Oswell still found himself captivated by the size of the desecrated towers, the sheer magnitude of the castle grounds. The godswood covered near on fifty acres of land. Riding through the gates, he was greeted by his brother descending the steps.

"Oswell, it's been too long. How have you been?" his brother asked fondly, his piercing dark eyes, their fathers eyes, boring into his own.

"Well enough. Looks like home hasn't burnt anymore." A jest between the two brothers since Oswell had taken the white cloak up was if home would be burnt down anymore between visits. Oswell had actually helped Princess Rhaenys' who liked to draw make a picture of Harrenhal if it had not been burnt anymore. The little Princess had instead decided to amuse herself by sketching a piece of coal, with a man on his knees staring at the ruin before him. Rhaegar had begun to tell her all the stories, and she always managed to get Oswell to tell her more. Oswell had sent that to his brother at Elia's insistence,  a glint of humour in her eyes - and his brother had seen the jest made by the child and sent Rhaenys' a necklace with a golden bat inlaid on the chain. Rhaenys was nearing a year old, and was a smart child, spending hours drawing anything that came to mind.

"Come, we'll talk in my solar." The Lord of Harrenhal led him to the solar, after Oswell had got rid of the drunk and entrusted his horse to a stable hand. The solar, like most of the castle, was dark and gloomy with traces of Balerion's fury left in the scorch marks, and the melted tar along the walls. Bats decorated the room, as did the insignia of House Whent. Walking in, Oswell was greeted by his niece, a dark-haired maiden of six-and-ten, who had yet to find a suitable suitor.

"Uncle! Your visits are too few and far," Sarya said as she hugged him. Oswell embraced her back, planting a kiss to her forehead.

"The last time I saw you, you were demanding that I teach you how to ride, and how to fight. I would've done so, had your father not threatened to skin me alive!" He gasped in mock horror, a gentle grin tossed his brother's way.

Lord Whent smirked, "I'm thinking of marrying her off to some old Frey..."

"My niece is better than any spawn of that old git."

Sarya laughed, "No need to fret Uncle, I'd skin him alive." She tossed a wink at her Uncle, curtseyed to her father and left the room to pursue ladylike activities.

Oswell took a seat, the one next to his brother, on his right. Oswell poured himself a goblet of wine, and turned in his chair to face his brother. "A Frey?"

"I told her I'd do that as punishment," Lord Walter chuckled, Oswell shaking his head in amusement. "I have sent a raven to Tywin Lannister, inquiring after Ser Jaime."

"Tywin wants a first born daughter from one of the Great Houses to wed to his son. The only one eligible would be the Martells with their Princess Arianne. Though I doubt he had the patience to wait for her flowering. Last I heard, Lyanna Stark had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon, and Catelyn Tully to Brandon Stark."

"You've heard correct. Although, I am hoping a tourney would lure prospective spouses here. Maybe even a Dornish Prince..."

"Do you mean Oberyn?! That man is dangerous, has bastards everywhere and-"

"And he is the brother of the future Queen, and Uncle to the heir to Rhaegar."

Oswell thrummed his fingers against the table. "Oberyn won't be wedding anytime soon. He doesn't believe in the marriage vows, and refuses to keep to one bed."

"You heard this from where?"

"From Elia. Ser Arthur and his sister Ashara. The Prince's brother Daeron; who might actually be interested. And several Dornish ladies at court. The stories are quite salacious."

"I have heard of them, you do not need to remind exactly who's sheathed Oberyn's sword," Lord Whent commented dryly, taking a sip from his wine. "What other news from the Capitol?"

"Harlan Grandison appears to be growing weaker in his old age. He was a fierce fighter when I joined, near on ten-and-two years ago, but now... The man is old, his body is tired. He guards the young Prince, and carries messages. That's all he can do." Oswell pursed his lips and drank deeply from his cup. He pondered his thoughts for a minute. "The Grand Maester also took offence when Oberyn came to visit, and he believes that Winter is coming to an end. Not this year, mayhaps next year."

"Then I'll have a tourney. Show off the wealth of the House. You present the idea to the Royal family, and I'll send the letters out. A grand idea. A grand tourney, in the most despicable place in the Kingdom." The brother's chuckled darkly, and spent the next few hours debating the plans of the tourney.


	7. Council of Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changes will be made. I meant to do it long ago, but ... well, it does no good to speak of roads not taken. We shall talk when I return

**_King's Landing, 280 AC_ **

The scowling white knight made his way down the corridor. His helm with the black bat of his family's house spread its wings across it, neatly tucked into his arm.

As he came down the corridor, he saw the most dignified and deadliest of his sworn brothers of the Kingsguard, Arthur Dayne, still standing vigil over their deceased and fallen brother Harlan Grandison. His face which looked cured leather when on duty, finally looked relaxed. His skin growing paler by the second. For seven days and nights, Arthur had stood over Harlan.

And stand he did, for seven days and six nights, undeterred and unmoving despite the weight of his armor, the throngs of mourners (both noble and common) who had come to pay their respects and after a few days, the unmistakable stench of death. It was the least he could do for a knight who had died of old age, a rare feat in their line of work.

The news of Grandison's demise spread quickly throughout King's Landing to a somewhat mixed reaction. There those who knew of Ser Harlan were saddened to hear he had passed but not overly upset by it. There had been those who had fought beside him at one point who had spoken about his various deeds and honors and were sad more out of respect for his position than any sense of personal loss. There were those who knew of him who were happy to finally see the old man die as they felt he was too weak and feeble to be in his kind of position. And then there were his fellow brothers in the Kingsguard whose reactions were a mixture of all three with varying degrees of emotion to see the man put in the ground.

Prince Rhaegar, however, seemed to be the only person truly mourning the loss. The way a person normally mourns the death of someone they were close to. Those who did not know Rhaegar saw it one of two ways: as a noble gesture by the much loved heir to the throne over the passing of one of his loyal subjects or as yet another sign of his melancholy, something that King Aerys did well to hide from those outside of the inner most circles.

The prince's younger brother Daeron had mourned him as well but in a different way than his elder brother. He kept his head down and did not cry. Figures, the man had been the one to knight the young prince himself. But his time would have come soon, as he was around from the time of King Aegon V, as was the Lord Commander. 

Oswell himself never truly understood the melancholy within Prince Rhaegar or the sorrow that seemed to be a part of his being. Perhaps it was due to being born from the grief of Summerhall. The only one who seemed to understand was Ser Arthur. Not even his wife, Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, who had borne him a daughter nearly a year past seemed to understand the sombre and melancholy demeanor of Prince Rhaegar.

He often wondered how history would remember Aerys. The man definitely suffered from some form of insanity but he had done much good during his reign and Oswell wondered if years of triumphs would erase the years of failures. He highly doubted it however. As much as history was written by the powerful and therefore painted them in a much more pleasing light then they may have actually warranted, it also loved a good story. More often than not it was scandal and rumor that fueled the history books. The more scandalous and salacious the story, the more people liked it and the more people liked it the more it was likely to be remembered. Aerys, though, was little in the way of salacious or scandalous. By comparison he seemed a rather weak ruler. A man who once been held captive and imprisoned by his own bannerman. Not exactly someone to be revered for his great works, or feared for his vile deeds.

Rhaegar, on the other hand, would be different. Despite all of the whispers of his melancholy, it was clear to all who knew him that Rhaegar was destined for great things. Everyone who had ever crossed his path knew it. Something hard to exactly describe in words, one always got the feeling that when you stood with Rhaegar you were standing next to greatness. It was one of the reasons he was so well loved. There was just something about Rhaegar that endeared him to so many. He was intelligent, wise and just. Able to hold philosophical discussions with a Maester one moment to helping to restore the homes in Flea Bottom after hard rains, Rhaegar was a prince of his people, always willing to help. Always willing to serve.

He did not do or say anything except stand beside Arthur. When the sun could no longer be seen, and with the arrival of the Silent Sisters to carry Ser Harlan off to his final internment, Arthur had given one final bow before heading out the door. It was there that they met Gerold Hightower, Lord Commander of the Kingsgaurd, wore a somber, yet wholly expressionless face.

"It seems almost too convenient wouldn't you think so?"

"What is?"

"Our plans barely begun and one of us pays the price?"

Oswell then cocked his head toward the Lord Commander. He loved Harlan more like a brother than a simple brother in arms. They had rode with the man during many campaigns and was the closest out of all of the men to the fallen knight. His loss had hit him just as hard as Rhaegar.

"For all we know, it could have been the handiwork of the Spider" Arthur said in a hushed voice.

Oswell should have suspected as such. Lord Varys had the King's ear. More so than Tywin Lannister, the Hand of the King, whose duty Lord Varys had usurped. There were few in court who trusted that foreigner who had gained such a position of power with the King. Rhaegar had not been fond of the man either. Especially since he felt that Varys was fueling his father's ever growing paranoia regarding him and his position. Ever since his return from the Defiance of Duskendale, Aerys had begun to see enemies with every turn. Even amongst his own family. The old man nearly scarred his second eldest son Daeron, because he believed he would slay him when he was just practicing his swordsmanship. And Rhaegar was no exception. He was younger than him. Universally loved by both noblemen and smallfolk alike. And most importantly, he was just coming into hi s power, while Aerys faded with each passing day. Aerys fears Rhaegar and Varys plays into those fears with every opportunity. It unnerved Rhaegar that this man who had come from nowhere, stood in such a position as to dictate not only his own future but that of the entire realm.

To make matters worse, Aerys has already begun to search for Ser Harlan's replacement. Arthur stated as they began the long trek down Visenya's hill and back towards the castle.

"Already?!" Oswell exclaimed. It was a tradition that a small grace period to pass before consideration started to replace a member of the Kingsguard. A way to honor the fallen knight and to show that he was no longer here, he was not easily replaced. While there was no set time period given for this, it usually ran for no less than seven weeks from the moment the knight was interred.

"Another one of the Spider's doings, perhaps?"

"Or the voices in our king's head is growing stronger"

"There are plenty of able-bodied men who more than eager to replace Grandison"

"He could easily replace a sleeping lion with a golden one, if he were not Lord Tywin's heir"

"Are you mad, Arthur? That would be all the reason Aerys would want to appoint young Ser Jaime to the Kingsguard"

"I've seen him fight and hold his own against the Smiling Knight. All I am saying is if he were a second or third son, I'd see no problem for him to join is all"

That conversation quickly ended as they made their way to a nearby tavern. All of them were in need of a good strong drink. Gerold quickly held up his glass; and said, "To Harlan"

"To Harlan"


	8. The Carrying Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were never the boy you were

_**Eddard Stark, The Vale, 281 AL** _

"Oh, come off it, Elbie!"

"All I'm saying, Robert, is that Ned shouldn't have refused Alyce."

"She was rather ... forward all of a sudden."

"Well, c'mon, Ned! It wasn't that great of a secret that you two fancied each other. A match between you and Alyce would have been a good one. And it would tie you closer to us! Or do you no longer want to see our faces ever again?"

Ned had come to love these men as his brothers. Robert Baratheon, dark of hair and blue of eyes who was just a year older than him. Always full of mirth, gregarious and towering nearly over all of them. Having a laugh over anything, loving nothing more than a good fight, a hearty drink and ... a willing wench. Having already fathered a bastard, Robert was notorious for thinking with his cock rather than his head, gaining a rather lecherous reputation. This was a bit of an embarrassment to Lord Jon Arryn, who had done his best to try and instill a sense of honor and duty into the young man who had gained lordship after the death of his father Lord Steffon Baratheon.  
Elbert Arryn who was just a year younger than Ned himself. Windswept blonde hair and blue eyes. Handsome, charming and witty. Armed with a natural talent for archery and falconry. He'd been betrothed to Lady Mina Tyrell of the Reach for some time and the two would be wed in the beginning of the new year.  
Denys Arryn, who was the son and heir of Jon Arryn. As he came to see Jon Arryn as a second father-figure, he saw Denys as akin to a brother. Denys, otherwise known as the Darling of the Vale, was the ever the soul of courtesy and gallantry. And a renown tourney champion. They all looked to him with all the enthusiasm that a child would look upon an older peer and he was protective of them as if they were his own brothers.

And like any brothers, including his own, they had relentlessly teased him at times. Especially now, because of a girl.

Alyce Waynwood was a rather comely girl with loose brown hair and eyes and a pinched nose which he found to be adorable. He had enjoyed kissing her and had hoped to  _eventually_  marry her. There was no rush and he wasn't likely to be lord of anything for a long time. Rarely did Ned make a reckless decision (and all the ones he had were the result of a situation that Robert had pulled him into).

It had been the night before when she insisted that he bed her.  _"We needn't wait any longer Ned. We're as good as married!"_

Yet, he refused. For he needed and wanted the blessing of her uncle. And in anger and retaliation, Alyce had stormed off and had allowed herself to be bedded by Orson Hardyng who had Jon Arryn's steward for only two years. Now, Alyce is now growing with child because he could not will himself to the deed himself.

"OY! Jasper! Help me out of my armour will you?" Elbert called out to his cousin. Looking at them both, the pair could almost pass for twins. Both of them were of an age with each other but whereas Elbert's hair had neat blonde locks, Jasper's was a stringy brown. Elbert was witty and Jasper had none. A horse had kicked him straight on his head when he was still a boy. While he could never be a knight in his own right, he diligently did his duties of a squire to his newly-knighted cousin.

And hearing it from both Elbert and Denys, a marriage between him and Alyce would strengthen the ties between the Starks and the Arryns. And it wouldn't hurt being bound to them by blood. He'd come to see them as a second family. Jon Arryn, Denys, Elbert and even Robert Baratheon.

"Falcons. Who needs 'em anyways, eh, Ned?" Robert laughed. That was something that Ned came to admire and also found strange. Robert would always find himself laughing over anything. Even if he wasn't deep into his cups.

"Relax." Denys all but ordered him to do. "You'll find someone to quench that thirst in time, Ned. A good woman is all anyone truly needs in the end, I am sorry about Alyce. Mayhaps there's a young Northern girl that has take your fancy? Or mayhaps a girl from the Stormlands? You did attend that tourney with Robert in honour of his father."

None actually. None he wanted to marry but some whom he found comely to the very least. Lady Lyessa Flint was round of face and gentle of soul; undoubtedly sweet and witty. Bethany Ryswell was certainly a beauty with her sharp and piercing brown eyes. But both were married off. Lyessa to some lesser distant relation and Bethany to Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. And there were no particular girls in the Stormlands that piqued his interest in the slightest. Robert's cousin Serena Estermont seemed lovely and good company at least. Robert likely wanted him to bed her, despite the fact she was already married. According to Robert, Serena's husband was a renown sword-swallower and pillow biter. And that he would have the honour of raising his bastard. But he would not want on anyone, no matter how unsatisfied or unhappy she was in her marriage. 

"Alright, lads. Let's come off it and leave Ser Blushalot alone with his thoughts" Elbert said, while friendly tapping his shoulder. He had to admit that he had been lucky in having known and met his betrothed at least. And he knew the only way to earn his ire was by calling him by the annoying nickname they coined for him.

"Not ... any one in particular. What about you Denys? Any girls taken your fancy before you wedded Lady Ursula?"

From there, Denys looked a stiff as a rock. Despite no children having come from Denys and his wife Lady Ursula Elesham of the Paps, he remained devoted to his wife nonetheless. But near seven years and still no issue. It seemed to be a curse to the Arryns. Lord Jon was grateful and lucky that he got a daughter and a son; even if he had lost his lady wife in spite of his gain. Still, it was fun watching Denys now beginning to crumble.

"I-I ... It's not ... particularly wrong to have a kiss or two ... prior to wedding someone. ... No particular harm at a - "  
"Didn't uncle Jon and Old Lord Hunter want you to wed his daughter Janyce?"  
"They reached their bargain. Rhea married Lord Eon's son and heir Gilwood. And shut up Elbert!"

They all had a laugh at how red Denys' face had turned. He looked almost like a beet with ashen leaves.

"Alright. Enough talk about lady wives. I'll be seeing mine soon enough" Robert declared happily.

Ned had to admit that it was a rare and strange sight for Robert to look this happy about a woman. The betrothal had been made about a year ago. Stark and Baratheon to be united once Lya is of an age. It was strange to think of her becoming someone's wife. Even as a babe, he remembered her being so undeniably willful. Wolf's blood, he remembered his mother telling him. It was hard to think of her as a woman grown. She is more suited to be Queen of the Wildlings rather than be the wife of some southron lord.

When he had left to foster in the Eyrie, she was just a scrawny girl of five. "Promise you'll write me every day, Ned! Promise me!," she cried. And he kept his promise. Every day he wrote to her about is time in the Vale. How welcoming Lord Jon Arryn was along with his nephew and other ward, Robert Baratheon. The cold and snows that the Vale often brought. The first tourney he attended in the squat Redfort. The scars he got in fighting a horde of Burned Men in an attempt to escort Lady Meredyth Waynwood to her wedding to Ser Lewys Bracken. The knighthood Jon Arryn awarded him and Robert for the display of bravery and foolishness according to him. He had done him a boon by doing it in sight of the Old Gods, in front of the Royce's weirwood tree. The wedding of Lady Rhea Arryn to Lord Gilwood Hunter and that of Lady Annalys Waynwood and Ser Ronard Arryn of Gulltown.  
And she in turn told him of the comings and goings of Winterfell. How much Ben was sprouting up like a weed. Her secret sparring sessions not only with Ben but also with Martyn's youngest boy Jory. How what it meant to kiss someone and that Hullen's boy Harwin had given her a peck on the cheek. _Child's play and folly._  How his older brother Brandon had found himself "taken" with Lady Barbrey from House Ryswell.

I have come to know and think of Robert as a brother. I do hope he can make himself worthy of my sister. Even when he fumbles, he had tried to do good. Little Mya was proof of it; he could've done away with her yet instead, he often visited her and played with her. The girl often giggled herself to the bone whenever Robert tossed her into the air like it were nothing. 

Right now, he could only hope that Lya would be a worthy enough bride for Robert and that he be worthy enough for her. 

The days of childhood fancies and dreams would be done with, surely by the years end. For winter will come.


	9. Snows and Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful, and willful, and dead before her time

_**Lyanna; Winterfell, 281 AL.** _

"Get up, stupid!" Lyanna mocked half-heartedly. She held the tourney sword with one hand, her grip tight on the wooden pommel. Her other arm was stretched out so to help her gain her balance and to prevent her from falling in the pool in the godswood. She was agilely perched on a rock, left foot flat against the rock, her right foot crooked to the ball of her feet. She wore a small smirk on her face, her eyes alight with triumph. Her grey eyes were focused on her brother, Benjen, 2 years younger than herself at three and ten years old. He was sat upright, the water pooled around his middle, his knees bent and his arms keeping his head from falling in the water. He'd been standing on the rock a yard away when Lyanna struck his weary side and sent him falling.

"That's not fair!" Benjen complained loudly. He huffed and stood up; he was shorter than her by several inches, his dark hair was beginning to grow wild around his face. She reminded him of Brandon when he was that age. But, Brandon was four years her elder and being trained for Lordship of the North. Her other brother Eddard often called Ned to family and close friends was being fostered in the Vale, but was due home for a visit soon. In a letter, he'd been telling them of his friend, Robert Baratheon and how he would come up North with him and then Ned would likely visit Roberts' homeland of the Stormlands. "I don't think Ned would survive the Stormlands, he's not wanton enough," Brandon had commented, to Lyanna's amusement and to her fathers' chagrin. Benjen did not know what the word had meant, so had taken to writing that into a letter to Ned. Ned's response was that of chastisement of not to "corrupt the youngest sibling." Robert's visit would be enough to do that without the elder Stark son helping matters.

"How is not fair, dear brother? I won, you lost," Lyanna shrugged and stepped back on to dry land. She lost her footing however, when Benjen aimed a shot at the back of her knee. Buckling, she landed against the heart tree.

"No, now  _you've_  lost dear sister," Benjen rectified. Lyanna glared at him. Benjen high tailed it, running full pelt to the castle, Lyanna hot on his heels. Rounding the corners at high speeds, Lyanna managed to dodge soldiers, washerwomen and farmers that were residents in Winterfell. She was however, unable to dodge her father's gaze.

"Lyanna!" Her father had a booming voice that men listened to when he spoke; he was a hard man to avoid. She stopped, her back to his face as she gritted her teeth for the lecture that was surely about to happen. Turning around, she heard her father's audible sigh. Brandon beside him, chuckling away quietly was off putting. Benjen had hidden behind a wheelbarrow to watch and not face his sister. "How many times do I have to tell you that you are a daughter of Winterfell, not a son."

"And yet, father, I seem to recall that it's women who give birth to the sons. If women can birth a child, why can't I fight with a sword?"

"It's not done that way, my dear child."

"If I ever marry, I hope you find me a husband who does not mind being beaten by a woman, because I have _every intention_ to fight, father."

Her father chuckled at that comment and Brandon had to hide his laughter with his fist. Rickard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, came down to join his daughter, and rested at her height, placing a hand on his shoulder and stroking her cheek affectionately. "My dear, when you marry, you can let your daughters fight. You can learn to joust if it please you. But, while you are in Winterfell, you do as I say. Especially when your betrothed is here."

"My what?!"

"You are to marry Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. Lord of the Stormlands and head of a powerful House. The stag and the dire wolf will be united." Rickard cast a gaze to his still chuckling son and heir. "As will the trout and the dire wolf once Brandon marries Catelyn Tully of Riverrun," an arched eyebrow of Rickard's was a silent challenge to his son, who had stopped laughing and instead looked quite serious. Serious for Brandon, by any means.

"When will they be here?" Brandon asked solemnly.

"Ned will be here within the fortnight. And Brandon will be making a visit to Riverrun eventually."

"Very well, father," said Brandon, before he turned on his heel and wandered away.

"Give my nephew a kiss for me!" she shouted. That secret will not be kept for long. It was practically fact that Brandon was "besotted" with Barbrey Ryswell of the Rills. Roddy was an adorable and willful thing born nearly five moons past. Frankly, she was surprised that Bran didn't sire more. Mayhaps Roddy is his only "public" bastard? Either way, her father tried to quell any rumours as to not anger Lord Hoster Tully and endanger the betrothal between Houses Stark and Tully.

The next week or so was spent readying the castle for the party's arrival. A son of Winterfell returning, and the daughter soon to leave to seal an alliance with her maidenhead. Lyanna grumbled to Benjen, sympathized with Brandon and spoke sweet words to her father. She'd heard rumours about the Baratheon she was to wed, and not all were pleasant.

She took care to look nice on the day they were to arrive. She wore her hair loose, only a braid around her head decorated her dark brown curls. She wore a grey dress, made by her own hand, finely stitched with white thread. She wore a dire wolf pendant and her cloak was dark grey, a roaring dire wolf on the back of it. She stood in between her brothers and smiled fondly at Ned when he appeared underneath a dire wolf banner. He was dressed in Stark colours, but his clothes were finer than she'd seen them before. Almost gleaming. She supposed that the Eyrie would house more elegant finery, being a southern castle.

Under a yellow banner, a stag prancing in the light wind, a handsome man, well-muscled, clean shaven and with a strong face and kind-enough eyes rode behind her brother. The Lord of Storm's End. He wore yellow and black, a long sword at his hip, the mantle of a stags head, and a warhammer on his back. It was an ugly thing, spiked and dull grey. The horses lined up in front of them, Lord Jon Arryn, under his blue and white moon and falcon banner joined the young Lord, his fair-haired kin at his heel and the son of Winterfell.

Lord Arryn paid his respects to Lyanna's father, shaking hands with her father, before shaking hands with Brandon, and dropping to one knee to kiss Lyanna's hand and moving on to ruffle Benjen's hair. Ned hugged father and Brandon, kissed Lyanna's cheek and noted how she was no longer taller than him when they were children, before promising Benjen he'd take him to the Eyrie one day. Robert paid his respects, bowing to Lord Stark, shaking Brandon's hand and dipping his head. He approached Lyanna cautiously. She stood tall, her face like stone as she gazed upon this man. He dropped to one knee to kiss her hand. "My Lady," he murmured in a voice that sounded like it could be booming like her fathers. He stood once more and pressed something into her hand. "A token of my affection. Ned told me you had a fondness for flowers and beauty." Opening her hand, Lyanna smiled softly at the falcon's feather and the pretty pale pink rose in her hand.

"Thank you, my Lord. If it please you, my name is Lyanna. You can use it," she smiled softly at him, charmed by his gift.

"And mine is Robert. And it would please me greatly to call you Lyanna. I was never a fan of courtesy," he chuckled. Lyanna joined in. She did not miss the audible sigh of relief from her father or Lord Arryn. Ned gave her a knowing look and smile as Lord Arryn's son and nephew greeted the rest of the Starks.

_This is going to be a long day._

**Robert**

He had to admit; Ned's sister was certainly a pretty lass. A braid of her long dark brown hair around the crown of her head, a rather slim figure, and eyes that gleamed like pools of molten silver. An aura of mischievousness surrounded her. Hells, she almost reminded him of Ned but with teats! HA!

"You've certainly put me and my house to shame, my lady!" he called out as she had clearly beaten him in a horse race. 

"Twas your own folly for challenging a proper northwoman!" 

"Lya! What are you doing on my horse?" her older brother Brandon called out. Guess that made sense. A rather tiny lady on such a grand and powerful desertier barely made sense. 

"Sorry, Bran. As much as I love Winter, Chastity is stronger!"

"Chastity? Bran named his horse ... Chastity?" Ned had said bewildered. 

"Lord Rodrik gifted her to Brandon as a way for him to remember after he left Lord Cleyton and Willam. And Barbrey thought the name rather apt!"

"Bran said that it was most certainly to remember her. What do you think it means, Ned? When I asked Bran he threatened to clout me in the ear!" the pup Benjen asked. I could only imagine. 

"Please don't tell him, Ned! And its not fit for either of your maiden ears! Ha ha!!"

"It'd be most unchivalrous and unbecoming of you Ned to corrupt your brother!" Elbert japed along with Brandon. 

"You ought to grace us by entering in the lists at Harrenhal, my lady!" Robert proclaimed. "Bright shining armour to bring out the shimmer in your eyes" He could have thought of something better to say. He knew he was a lot of things, but clearly not a poet. 

"Mayhaps, my lord," she said as she lead the horse back to the stables. "And I will sorely be tempted to crown you my Queen of Love and Beauty, your lordship. A laurel of winter roses would surely bring out the blue in your eyes"

"I thought you said that your sister could ride like the wind, you clearly lied Ser Ned!" Elbert japed again. 

"It appears that I was misinformed, my good man. Lyanna is the wind. A centaur at the very least," Ned said. If a centaur was ever a lovely creature as Lyanna, then certainly Lyanna was as wild and untamable as the wind. Robert was fancied himself as Durran Godsgrief as a boy, surely Lyanna - or Lya as her brother's called her - she must surely be his sweet Elenei. 

"Spirited," Robert said, with a smirk of satisfaction. "I like that."

"You'll soon find you have more spirit on your hands than you'd care for," Ned told his friend dryly. "Lyanna was born half-wolf and growing up motherless in the North has hardly tamed her into a gentle southron maid."

"Hang the gentle southron maids," Robert said brightly as he eyed her growing smaller into the long distance between the stables and the castle. His blue eyes sparkling as she all but faded away.

Soon came time for a feast. Twas certainly not the kind he was used to in the Stormlands or the Vale but a feast nonetheless. The dais had been filled with boar, pheasants, pork sausage and such. 

Lyanna's dark lashes veiled her grey eyes. Under their lord father's stern gaze she was, for all intents and purposes, a demure young maid. Preceding at the head of the table, in the place of the lady of the castle she spoke low and let her sweet smiles wash over one and all. Gracious and charming; a flower of sweetness.

"More vension, Lord Robert?" she asked solictiously. "It is well-seasoned with Dornish spice and most tender."

Lord Rickard beamed upon his daughter. Lord Robert glowered upon his betrothed.

"Gods, woman, don't _mock_ me," he laughed. 

Lyanna lifted her bright face to Robert. "Mock you, my lord?" she asked. "If I erred you, then I beg you for your sweet forgiveness." Then louder, for her father's benefit, she added, "We have plenty of other things to feast on that will surely sweeten your tongue, if not the venison."

Robert felt over-sweetened. "Very well, my lady, gloat over this victory. I will have the next one." He smiled, envisioning their bridal night. It would not be for two or three years - on her last nameday, which had been some weeks before, she had turned five and ten. Still rather young for marriage. But she'd be a lively one, to be sure. Put up a little fight. Good. He liked that. Just the thought of it excited him. 

Lyanna read his expression correctly and coloured, looking down. Brandon read his expression correctly and looked up, scowling darkly. Rickard read his expression correctly and smiled, looking delighted that he and his betrothed were getting on so well. Jon Arryn seemed to give him a pleased look if not something akin to disdain. Ned and Benjen were still heavily conversing with Elbert and Denys; likely about Benjen squiring for either one of them or even Ned. That wouldn't be fair though; a brother knighting his younger brother. 

Suddenly, both Lord Stark and Arryn began to converse about the upcoming Tourney at Harrenhal. It soon became the center of topics to talk about. "Will it be a grand tourney?" Benjen asked Robert. From north to south, from Dorne to the Wall, almost  _everyone_  had been talking about Harrenhal, how Lord Whent's grand tourney which will surely shame all tourneys that had been, and all tourneys that were to come. 

"Most tourneys are," Robert said, tearing his glance away from Lyanna. He smiled, for he liked curious little boys who looked up to him and talk of tourneys. "Ever been to one?"

"Small affair," Benjen admitted, looking embarrassed. "The Manderlys put up one at White Harbour last year - Brandon had won and crowned Lya his Queen of Love and Beauty." He then saw Lyanna eye her brother appreciatively who, in turn, smiled back at his sister. 

"Nothing so grand as the one the Whents will hold at Harrenhal," Benjen continued

"Everyone will be there, won't they?" Lyanna asked eagerly, leaning forwards.

Denys chimed in, "Prince Rhaegar will surely come. I even heard that the King himself might come, though he's not set foot out of the Red Keep for years-"

 _And Princess Elia and the sweetest maids of her court_ , Robert thought, his mouth watering. But lovely as they were, they were highborn. Their sacred virtue was a shining, impenetrable shield borne up by their fathers and brothers. One needed to be a prince or a king to have your way with a noble maiden - a pity that his cousin, Prince Rhaegar, was so absorbed in his books and his melancholy that he never took advantage of such opportunities offered to him. Or mayhaps his other Targaryen cousin Daeron the Dashing as the maids called him, had taken such liberties. Robert didn't care much though. The whores who'd set up shop at Harrenhal would be almost as pretty - though not as clean, of course.

"All the great lords of the realm save Lord Tywin Lannister," Lord Rickard told his daughter.

"But Lord Tywin is the King's Hand," Lyanna said, remembering. "Why will he not come?"

Jon Arryn answered for them. "He quarrelled with King Aerys. Some say that it was over his son, Ser Jaime. From what I gathered, he's been appointed to - nay, ordered - the Kingsguard and now Lannister has his second son for an heir. A misshapen dwarf," Jon Arryn told them all in a mildly curt manner. Robert found himself roaring with laughter as he envisioned the lion lord's face when King Aerys had given the order. Sour man, he was, though they called his daughter one of the jewels of King's Landing. Robert had never seen the Lady Cersei but if she took after her twin she must be quite the beauty. 

"A child," Lord Rickard said dismissively. "Jaime Lannister - how old is he now?"

"Just about your daughter's age, my lord. About five-and-ten," Denys said. "Old enough." Thirteen-year-old Benjen looked fascinated.

Lord Rickard and Jon shook their heads and remarked that the Kingsguard was not what it used to be, when green boys were appointed for spite to wear the cloak of honour that had once belonged to men like Ser Gwayne Corbray. But then, his own great-grandsire had once had cause to grieve over the same - when King Aegon the Unworthy had raised his Fleabottom knight, Ser Duncan the Tall, to the White Swords for the love he bore him.

Lyanna grinned and cuffed Benjen's head, "Not till you can outride _me_ , Ben." Then she paused and giggled while looking at Robert. "Even if we let you trade your tourney sword for live steel, you will _never_ outride me."

Robert pursed his lips and Lyanna pouted. She had such rosy little lips that he smiled and thought about how it would feel like to kiss them, to feel her tongue between his...  

"Riverrun, of course," Lord Stark was telling Brandon. "Of course you should pass by Riverrun - you must be most anxious to see how your betrothed has grown." It was a shame that he couldn't go with them. He would love to go with them and at the very least, try to know Lyanna better. But alas, he would be going to White Harbor with the Arryns and surely meet up with his bannerman who would come to attend the tourney as well. 

Robert looked at Brandon. "I never knew you were betrothed," he said, in surprise. "Unfortunately, it's just me and you," Brandon laughed. "We're going to let Ned hunt for his bride on his own." Ned blushed as prettily as a maiden.  _Ser Blushalot_ , Robert remembered, grinning. Elbert Arryn had nicknamed timid Ned Stark that whenever a pretty maid passed by, and all Ned could do was turn beet red. He had been a rarity among them for he did not seek out serving wenches or whores. And for all he had known, Robert had once wondered whether he preferred men and had once seriously thought of purchasing a boy fair of face and hair from the pleasure houses of Lys for him.

"He'll never get married at all if you do," Robert suddenly objected. "He's not exactly the courting sort - the man can barely can't ask a girl to dance if I won't do it for him!"

Lyanna laughed. "That sounds like our Ned," she said fondly. She stretched her hand across the table and squeezed Ned's arm briefly. It was touching to see the easy affection between them.

"Catelyn Tully and I were betrothed when she was twelve and I five-and-ten, nearly four years ago," Brandon explained. "It was kept between our families - never officially announced."

"Lord Hoster intends to make it official when we visit," his father said dryly. "He never made his younger girl's betrothal with Jaime Lannister official-"

"Jaime Lannister betrothed to a Tully?" he asked.

"Little Lysa," Rickard said, nodding. "Lord Tywin and Lord Hoster were coming to terms over it but then after the King..." He shook his head. "Lord Hoster means to make it official between his Catelyn and my Brandon this time."

"He'll undoubtedly make Brandon sign a contract sealed in blood," Lyanna said sagely. "Forbidding him to take up the white or the black or any other colour that entails celibacy. Just in case Brandon feels like turning tail and fleeing when he lays eyes upon his bald, blushing bride."

"She can't _still_ be bald," Ned objected. "She was little more than a child when that happened and now she'll be-"

"About six and ten or thereabouts," Lyanna said. She was grinning, as though she had remembered something very amusing. "She's just about a year older than me, remember? And her sister just a year younger." She turned to Robert, eyes dancing. "D'you know what they say about the girls of House Tully, Lord Robert?"

 _Probably something salacious but you'll just give me the watered-down version, won't you?_ "What do they say?" he asked politely. He doubted he'd hear anything worth hearing from the lips of a gently-raised, highborn maiden like Lyanna Stark. _  
_

"They've _sunset_ in their hair," she said and began to warble, " _I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair._ " It was a lovesong, as old as it was sad and sweet.

Eddard and Brandon began to chuckle and Lord Rickard frowned. Robert felt lost. "So... your betrothed has red hair?" he asked Brandon awkwardly. When he was twelve, he'd lain with a girl with hair as red as the copper he'd tossed her. _She swore I'd need but a copper to be a man,_ he thought wryly. Now I'm more of a man than I was before.  _  
_

"Auburn," Lyanna said, smiling impishly. "Both the Tully girls do. _Such_ a lovely color. So bright."

"She set it on fire," Brandon offered, by way of explanation, when Robert continued to look politely puzzled. "Lady Catelyn was eight and my sweet sister seven. Some childish tiff. Gods, it was-"

"Such a lovely color!" Lyanna crowed. " _That_ showed her! And it wasn't a childish tiff - she was a perfect little  _monster_ to me. Telling me how old and ratty my clothes were and how dreadful my voice and how ugly and wild I was. So uppity and so very, very proud of her _beautiful_ hair-"

Robert roared with laughter, trying to picture a miniature version of Lyanna setting fire to a prim little lady. Lyanna looked immensely pleased with herself. "They had to cut it all out," she said. "Huge chunks of it, and she was crying all the time they did - not because she'd gotten hurt but because of all that poor, pretty hair being chopped off. And after it was done she was as bald as an egg and then she didn't have a word to say about how ugly I was."

"Yes," Lord Rickard said firmly, cutting short his daughter. "It will be good for us to pay a visit to Riverrun. Benjen needs the company of boys of his own rank - Lord Hoster's youngest Edmure and Sebastion are close to an age with him. And I believe my wayward daughter would do well to associate with maidens of her own station as well - it will be a good way to discipline her."

Lyanna looked puzzled. "I burnt her hair seven years ago, father. I don't need to be disciplined now."

Her father gave an exaggerated sigh. "You will forgive my daughter's ignorance, Lord Robert," he said. "She had never been schooled in southron ways. I never saw the need to but now I must say that it is a pity that I have let her grow so wild and unmaidenly."

"Oh no, of course not," Robert said quickly. He flashed Lyanna a dazzling smile. "I prefer her the way she is."

"That is kind of you," the lord said, with a thin-lipped smile. "But what you find pleasing in your betrothed, you might not find so pleasing in your wife. Lyanna, sweet child."

She plastered a polite smile on her face and said, "Yes, father?"

"We have supped well tonight and you have held your place at the table with marvelous grace," he said, inclining his head towards her.

Lyanna looked uncertain. "Thank you," she said awkwardly. She then moved on to converse with Ned and the Arryns, while Ben came up with any question about the Vale to pester Jon Arryn with. "Do the mountains really touch the moon?" "Is the climb as traitorous as a woman? I heard Harwin or Jory say that" "Could I be your squire too?"

"She is beautiful in all ways," Brandon answered, smiling proudly. Ah, the protective older brother - that was Brandon. Not Ned. Ned was the loving, petting older brother who let his sister wind him around her little finger.

"I hope you will love and cherish her as she deserves," Brandon continued. There was a steely glint in his eyes. _Could you ever be just for the sake of being?_

"To be sure," Robert said quickly. Brothers like Brandon were always hard to deal with. Of course, there _was_ a simple way to deal with them - but if the brother in question was his future good-brother he'd be better off not dealing with him at all.

 _Brothers and sisters._ Robert thought wistfully that he would have rather liked a sister of his own, to tease and pet and scold by turns. He almost felt jealous of the way Brandon leaned on Lyanna but then he quickly reminded himself that it was unseemly to be jealous of a brother-by-law. They were Starks, not Targaryens. Lyanna might be Brandon's sister but she would be _his_ wife. He smiled, as he thought of that. He liked the sound of that.


	10. The Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wild Wolf, Quiet Wolf, She-Wolf and the Pup muse as they make their way to Harrenhal

_**Rickard, Winterfell, 281 AC** _

 

Rickard sighed. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell."

His youngest son's demeanor deflated, eyes watering instantly. The boy was three-and-ten, two years younger than his only sister and nearly a man grown, yet bore the look and heart of a child and hopefully remain that way until he learns of duty and honour, as all Starks of Winterfell have before. "So I must stay here while everyone else goes South?"

Rickard allowed himself a small smile. "If Brandon agrees to keep you out of trouble while at the tourney, I will stay behind in Winterfell in your place." He rather preferred it anyway; it gave him time to solidify allies.

Catelyn Tully was already promised to Brandon, his eldest and heir, and Lord Steffon Baratheon had already proposed and accepted a betrothal for Lyanna to be his eldest son's bride before his untimely voyage. And from what he could gather, Lord Robert was surprisingly excited to eventually wed her. Surely enough, he could trust his three sons to ensure that nothing unseemly would happen to their sister and Lord Robert. Even in Winterfell, rumors of Baratheon bastards flew rampant. 

Benjen wrapped his father in a hug and ran from the room, taking his piercing energy with him. Alone, Rickard thought of the future of Westeros, and how it sagged beneath the king's rapidly declining mental stability. He and a few other lords of the Great Houses were in agreement that should it come to it, they would ready their banners and storm King's Landing.

If only the damned king would die and his son could take the throne. The Dragon Prince was revered across the lands, knighted and well read, a perfect specimen for rule. It seemed madness lengthened a man's life though, and Rickard wasn't sure if the realm would still be standing if they waited for King Aerys to pass away. But there is always the possibility that the taint of his had been passed to any of his other children. Daeron the second eldest was a renown tourney champion known for his valour and skill. And he could say nothing about the youngest. Innocent they maybe for now, but what happens when those dragon babes grow?

His mind drifted to his daughter, Lyanna - a wild child-woman of the North, growing infinitely more beautiful by the day. She had the Stark look: dark hair, silver-grey eyes, and a narrow face with high cheekbones. He'd rejected half a hundred marriage proposals for her, waiting for the right one that could further their strength and possibly make Lyanna happy.

From Ned's stories of his fellow ward, Lord Robert was a joyful man of rugged build with the black hair and blue eyes characteristic of Baratheon blood. Ned had no doubt that his friend would love Lyanna upon meeting her, and then the Starks would be aligned with three Great Houses: the Tullys and Baratheons by marriage, and the Arryns by fostering. Shame that Ned and the Waynwood girl did not come to wed as he and Lord Arryn hoped; then he would truly be tied with three Great Houses. But should it ever come to war with the crown, the Starks would be ready.

Rickard pored over the letter once more, the words of his House pounding in his head. Winter will truly be coming.

* * *

 

 

_**Lyanna** _

Their train set out at dawn, wagons and riders, litters and a wheelhouse for the ladies with the banners of Stark, Karstark, Dustin, Mormont, Manderly, Hornwood and Glover flying high above them. At their lord father's command, Lyanna was mounted on her palfrey, siddesadle like a lady, but she rode at the head of the train, more like a scout than the lord's daughter. She'd pushed back the hood of her grey cloak so that the snowflakes melted in her long, dark hair. Her cheeks were ruddy from the cold and a sapphire brooch, carved like a rose, glittered at her throat.

"Put your hood back up," Ned told her sharply. "You'll catch a cold." For all her bravado, his sister was fragile.

 _She does not weather the cold well, s_ he remembered Maester Walys telling their father after a particularly hard fever when she was barely six. _Take her south and let her grow strong and stout and rosy._ But Lyanna had been raised in the north all her life and had always remained a pale, slender little thing. _Like the weeds hiding under the rocks,_ she'd tell him, grinning. _They're pale, skinny little things too, but when winter comes they're the ones that flourish best.  
_

She stuck out her tongue at him. "Thank you for the warning mother," she said.

"Well, don't blame me if you find yourself too feverish and sick to watch the tourney," he told her.

"I won't," she assured him. Brandon, who hated early mornings, was snoring blissfully away in the wheelhouse. No doubt he was attended by Ethan's ever-giggling cousin Analys Glover who'd told Lyanna that his muscles bore testimony to the existence of good and gracious gods. There were times when she wondered if Bran was actually sired by an Umber. So tall and heavily muscled, that or any latent giant's blood had awakened in Bran and only Bran. Yet, he was as sure-footed and quick as a fox in spite of his stature. He and Robert were close of stature; Bran being just half a head shorter than him though. And Ned half a head shorter than Bran.

It was clear that she and Ned, and likely Ben as well, took more of the their grandsire; Arya Flint. The Flints of the mountains were rather known for their slight stature. She was as flat and slender as a board and while Ned was nowhere as heavily muscled as Bran, he was leaner of face and build but almost as quick as Bran. And the army of stubble marring his jaw and cheeks made him look rather wolfish. While Bran may be the better sword of them all, Ned was clever enough to stall him. "Your southron honour will get you killed, Neddy!" Bran had taunted before when he thought that Ned was not taking the sparring seriously enough. Yet, sweet Ned fiercely knocked Bran's sword out of his hand.

Today however, she was unusually silent and there was a shadow upon her face as she turned to him and said hesitantly, "Co-Could I please talk to you, Ned?"

"Of course," he said mildly. "What is it you would like to talk about?"

"Robert Baratheon, actually," she said. Managing to surprise even herself. 

"Well..." she twisted a strand of her hair about a finger and sucked it.

"Stop that," he said, without thinking, just like he had when she was four and he seven. _Don't suck your finger, Lya, you'll get worms in your tummy and you'll be sick. Old Nan says so._

"I actually had a dream about Robert. Living in his castle with the sounds of thunder pounding onto the ground like the beating of drums. And babes, screaming along with them. Only that they were not mine, and I knew it. That they were flooding the keep. Before I woke up from it, I had counted six-and-ten babes at the very least. I looked around and saw that they were all Robert's, and not one of them mine own"

Ned then gave a heavy sigh. He knew since she was still a girl and in her letters that she often dreamt of strange things. One time, in her letters to him, she had told him about a nightmare that the Night's King had risen from the dead and choked the life away from her. But he quickly told her that the dream itself was folly, and how Brandon likely had the same dream as well. 

"And I knew that from this sea of babes, that none of them were my own or be my own. And that I would never see Winterfell again." she said sadly.

"Why don't you think you'll ever see Winterfell again?" he asked mildly.

"Father means to have me trained in the 'womanly arts' at Riverrun with the Tullys, at least till Brandon's wedding," she said, making a face. "And I'm to be married to a great man-" she sniffed, as though she doubted that Robert was a great man or indeed, a man at all- "I need to know the ways of the southrons and their court."

"You'll still have to come back to Winterfell for the wedding," he reminded her. Girls were wed in their father's homes, in the septs in which they'd counted a dozen or more namedays, in the south, or under the shade of the heart-trees in which they'd grown tall, in the north. They were bedded in the great beds in which their sisters and aunts had lost their maidenheads. It was a time-hallowed custom. It could not be otherwise. "So it won't be like you'll never see Winterfell again."

"For all I know, Father might try to get me married in King's Landing," she said sulkily. "Think about it - Robert and his Targaryen blood. Didn't _his_ father marry his mother at court?"

And it would be an honor to marry off a daughter at court, to have the wedding banquet graced by the King himself, Ned thought. Why, Prince Rhaegar himself might carry Lyanna naked to the bridal bed, to honour Robert. _Father's not like to forget that._

"Well... Robert's a good man," he told her. "He'll let you come back to Winterfell to visit. Your sons will have Stark blood - do you think Father won't want them to see Winterfell?"

She sighed, as though he didn't understand. "You sweet fool," she said, almost tenderly. "Ned - don't you remember my dream? I was bound to Robert, in spite of his many babes. "

He winced at the coarseness of her language. "So?" he asked.

She gnashed her teeth. "I may never see it my home  _ever again_."

"Do you really think that? Winterfell is your home. My home. Our home. We're the wolves of Winterfell, the snow and cold is in our bones!" Ned said, trying to imitate the bone-chilling way that Old Nan told her stories.

"I won't. For all I know, I might die in childbed, in the likely event that your friend takes my maidehead and squirts himself silly in me!" she snapped and she realized that her brother saw her fear in her wide grey eyes. "Death and life in that damned bloody bed just like it was with Mother and Grandmother Flint before her! Father might want my sons at Winterfell but he won't want my _corpse_." She looked close to tears.

"Lya," he said gently He put his hand on her shoulder but she brushed it away angrily.

"Old Nan told me that it might happen," she said. "She told me after I'd flowered that it was a pity that I was so slim in the hips and I laughed - Gods, I laughed - and said it made me run faster. And then she shook her head and smiled and said a woman's hips were not made for running but for bearing sons. She told me to get some meat in my hips if I wanted to live to see my own sons running down their father's halls."

Almost in an instant, she had read Ned's face telling to put some meat on her hips then and there. He was easy to read sometimes. But she shook her head and said, sniffling, "No it doesn't work that way. I asked Maester Walys if it was true and what I should do to make my hips meaty and he said that there wasn't much, that my body was made that way and it'd be toss of a coin whether I- whether I-" The tears were falling thick and fast now and the poised young woman melted in the face of the frightened little girl. But that was only one of her fears about marriage. 

With a quick movement, he put his arms around her and clutched onto her tightly. "Gods be good," he said softly.

She wiped her face and said dully, "They never are. Childbed's a woman's battle just like _war_ is a man's battle. Old Nan says the odds are with me but the gods know I'd rather take my chance with live steel. Fighting in the field along with the many brave knights of the North or the like. I'd rather face my death than cower and flail in the dark, screaming because I can't stop what's happening to me."

"You can't possibly think that. And ... Robert has invited me to come to Storm's End. So, you won't ever be alone. I'll likely find a nice and proper girl from the Stormlands, and you can dote on your niece or nephew. Or more. Mayhaps you don't need a child to be happy. Just know that you'll always have a pack"

She smiled. "I know. But I feel sad. Still do." She rubbed her head and frowned. "Maybe it was a premonition. An omen - like the green dreams the gods send to the crannogmen."

"Words are wind, but dreams are still less than that. They mean nothing. The gods are too cruel or too kind to send us omens of our dooms," Ned quoted softly. "Lord Jon told me that."

Lyanna scowled. "Well he's a fool then," she said shortly, dismissing Jon Arryn and his sixty years of gathered wisdom with an insolent shrug. "An Arryn of the Vale, a Seven-worshipper, what d'you expect from him? What can he know of _our_ gods? I'm sure it's an omen. I'm sure I'll never see Winterfell again."

In a time of peace, men might go years without ever facing battle but a woman met hers soon after she flowered and every year brought a new battle. He held her hand, pressing the cold, callused little fingers hard. After a while, she squeezed back, hard enough to make him wince. "You and your blacksmith hands," he commented which made her laugh a bit.

"I should have been a boy," Lyanna said finally. "I think I _was_ a boy and then maybe father decided he wanted a girl after two boys so he cut the useless bits off."

He weighed that. "So... you think you're an eunuch?"

"I'm sure of it," Lyanna said honestly. "Or mayhaps what they say in Wintertown is true; that the Gods gave Lord Rickard Stark four sons and no maidenly daughter. Look at me. I'm as flat as a board, with no hips and barely any teats to speak of and I can't sit still a moment like a proper lady should and I like to get dirty and ride horses and-"

"And?" he prompted her. The idea was as amusing as it was preposterous.

"And. And. And." She winked at him. "And I have a man's appetites."

He burst out laughing. "You eat like a bird," he told her.

"There's appetites and then there's _appetites_ ," Lyanna said loftily. She made a face at him. "Tell me, Ser Eddard, are you a maiden?"

"Last time I looked down I wasn't."

Lyanna chortled. She was as fond of bawdy jests and comebacks as she was of songs. "Well, not a maiden then," she said. "But are you a _virgin_?" His blush was answer enough for her. "What, Robert never did his duty by you, sweetling?"

"He tried to, along with Elbert," Ned admitted. "But-" He paused, remembering himself. Such talk was not fit for a maiden sister's ears.

"But what?" she prompted. When he frowned, she sighed and rolled her eyes. "Too dirty weren't they, those brothels? And those painted girls? I agree, if I were a man I wouldn't go visiting there more times than I needed, I'd just pick myself out a nice-"

His voice came out shriller than he wanted it to. "Lyanna, have you ever _been_ to a brothel?" 

Lyanna gave him an odd look. "Gracious, no."

He breathed more easily.

"They don't sell men at brothels. For me, I mean. I don't think I'd like a woman very much. Or do they? At the Vale, do they sell men-"

He raised his hand imperiously. " _Enough_ ," he said sharply. "This conversation is most inappropriate."

Lyanna agreed at once. "Of course," she said. "Brothels - ha! It's the sort of thing a child like Ben should be talking about. A boy's braggart boast, to say he's been to a brothel and bedded a nice girl. _We_ can afford better mounts, can't we?" She threw him a look. "Well, not you perhaps, but me-" she smiled when his eyebrows rose. "I wouldn't even need to buy my own mount, since I'm _such_ a good rider. Good in both ways, I mean - I can assure you of that. And I'm not one, by the by."

"Not what?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

"Not a maiden," she said cheerfully.

"Lyanna-" he began.

She had heard Brandon boast much of his exploits at the brothel in Wintertown, and the whores there were likely fond of him and knew him on sight. He surely must have had Lady Barbrey Ryswell half-a-dozen times before she swelled with child. Mayhaps he had her while she was carrying Roddy? That was as good a reason as any to wed a girl as soon as possible, many fathers maintained. Benjen will likely enjoy himself silly if Bran decided to take him there. Mayhaps they'll be gentle with him as some strange woman takes her sweet brother's maidenhead?

"Won't you ask me?" she said, eyes dancing as he glanced doubtfully at her.

Ned gave her a wary stare before softening and his lips curled into that lopsided grin of his,"Who was it, Lyanna? Who has stolen the honour of my sweet maiden sister?"

She hooted with laughter and spurred her palfrey. "I am not sweet maiden! I'll tell you who it was .... if you can catch me!" she yelled and then she was gone in a whirl of dark hair and scarlet lambswool, with the white snowflakes clinging to her cheeks and melting in her hair. He could hear her mocking laughter as he spurred his horse forwards and chased her through the snow for an hour.

* * *

**Brandon**

They had left at the first sign of thaw and hadn’t been back since. Maesters said that this was a false spring, the winter had not been long enough. But Brandon was not suspicious. Suspicion usually bred distrust and discomfort. It was punishing a man for something he hadn’t yet done. A foolish endeavor yet he chose to trust

Trust was sometimes all that kept the country afloat, all a man had. His father had trusted Jon Arryn to take Ned, to care for him as if he was his own. They trusted the king to rule the country fairly. He trusted his father’s men would love and follow him as they did him when his father died.Trust was greater currency than gold, now that he thought on it.It was trust that brought his brother back to Winterfell for these six weeks.

Ned had grown well, tall and solemn. He was surefooted and quiet, quicker than he had been when he was a boy. But he was no match for loud, laughing friend Robert; large as a bull and easy in every way. Easy to please, to laugh, to learn, to love. He was also an easy swordsman, but his real talent was with a large hammer that the blacksmith from his home had fashioned him. He had forgotten about Ned for a moment. But that was the way of it.

Though men loved their Ned, it was Robert who took the attention and held it. Ned seemed to be an afterthought. But he was a good lad, and Lord Arryn seemed loathe to part with him. Ned tempered Robert’s excess and arrogance and Lord Jon joked that he would have his hands full with wild Robert. Of that, he had no doubt of that.

Robert did have the good grace of asking about Lyanna, though. His betrothed, though Brandon hardly thought about it. To see his wild wolf blooded sister married was something that he could hardly think on. She had been the one that would follow his foolish plans, and come up with some of their own, getting little Benjen to help and Ned would be the voice of reason.

To think of Lyanna betrothed. Married. The girl could hardly keep herself clean, much less manage a household. Her face was often streaked with dirt after a day of play and she had smelled to the high heavens. She was nearly sixteen, but she wasn’t more than a child. And she was to be married off within the year or next.

He was to be married as well. This year to Catelyn Tully. They had exchanged letters, and she had a fair hand. A fair face too, if he heard right and had last saw. The auburn hair and blue eyes of the Tullys. Slashing high cheekbones and unblemished pale skin as clear as the summer snows. He was to marry her after the Tourney at Harrenhal. He meant to tarry for a few more months. He did not care to look his future in the face, no matter how fair. Not yet.

His head then swam back to his sister and her fate as a married woman. He and Robert talked little and he hoped that he understood his warning. Lyanna is a woman of the north, with iron and frost in her veins. He then went to his brother sitting by the campfire with a heavy heart.

"Ned. How is the Baratheon boy?" He had liked the look of Robert, as a hunting companion, but perhaps the laughing youth was not a good husband. He had heard a bit about him.

Ned bit his lip. "He is a good man. Near a brother to me."

"You know I wasn't asking that, Ned. I heard he got a bastard on some girl. A highborn girl from what I've gathered. And I've heard he spends his time drinking, gambling and whoring."

Ned shook his head. "Not whores. Willing women."

"The only woman he should be willing to be with is Lyanna." Brandon felt himself go very stiff. It was one thing to mess around before marriage, but when one was engaged it was only ethical to stop such follies. There was a measure of trust there and it could not be broken.

"He fancies himself in love with Lyanna." Ned was attempting to offer comfort, or more like, he was simply stating the truth as he understood it. As he always had. 

"A man in love does not get bastards on other girls." Ned then gave him a look that made him feel like a boy in his father's presence. 

"D-Don't give me that look, Eddard! It's a different sort ..."

Ned continued to stare at him, in spite of being addressed by his true name. Everyone knew that it often irked him; especially used in the manner he had used. The way he kept staring at him seemed to bear into his soul. And it reminded him of the fact that his own son was back at WInterfell with his father. 

"I guess that's true. You haven't been in love, have you Bran?"

As much as he hated him at the moment, Ned was in the right. Robert Baratheon fancied himself in love with his sister, yet Bran for almost his nineteen years had never been in love. Likely there had been the woman he tumbled with fancied themselves in love with him. Barbrey likely thought herself in love with him. And now from what he heard, Barbrey is to wed his friend Willam Dustin. But as much as he loved to do the things Robert does, it will not last forever. 

But I am still young. And it is the duty of the young to live. 

 

**Ben**

"Ned?"

"Ben, what is it? Shouldn't you be resting now? Get back in the tent"

The young Stark then looked at his elder brother. His eyes seemed as shiny as the moon yet all the more mysterious. Bran and Lya were always there with him, but Ned would often visit whenever Lord Arryn would permit it. He'd often tell him stories himself or through his letters. It was one of the few things he looked forward to other than his secret training with Lyanna or regularly training with Marytn's boy Jory or racing with Lya, Bran and at times Harwin.

"It's pretty late, I could say the same to you as well, brother"

His brother then gave him a smile and neatly pulled him to his side. 

"Something on your mind? Copper for your thoughts?"

Much had been on his mind as of late. Things that he wasn't sure that he could tell his father, and things that Bran couldn't understand like his numbers. Just Lya as of late. 

"It, It's just that ... Do you think that I should join the Night's Watch now or later?"

Ned then gave him a incredulous look. "The Night's Watch? Now? Ben, you're still little more than a child!"

"Osric Stark was only a child when he was in the Night's Watch, and the youngest Lord Commander at the age of ten. And he ruled the Night's Watch for sixty long years. Why not? I'm only three-and-ten, and a third-born son. I'm too old to be fostered and too old to squire. There's great honour in serving the Night's Watch."

Ned gave him another incredulous look. "Ben ... You are still a boy. You've barely seen any bit of the world. You'll surely see a little more of it while we attend this tourney. And Father may have some plans for you yet, Mayhaps you'll find yourself a lady there."

Benjen Stark then made mocking retching sounds as if girls didn't appeal to him. He liked girls alright but they liked his brother Brandon more. All the maids in their household would "drop their skirts" for a night with him, from what he heard from Ser Rodrik. Whatever that meant. Whenever they showed him the slightest hint of interest, they'd almost ask to be brought to Bran; inquiring about him. 

"I'm a third-born son, Ned. What fair maiden would want me?"

"Stranger things could happen. I could be Lord of Winterfell and order you to find a bride this instant!" Ned said in a mocking manner, waving his finger about like he was a true lord like Father. 

"Now, c'mon. Its' time for bed. If we don't slumber this instant, winter will come for us," he said with a smile

 


	11. Kingspyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks come close to Harrenhal

**_The Dragon Prince_**  

He woke with a start.

"You cried out in your sleep."

He quaffed the wine to clear his head. "You ought to be used to that by now."

He could hear the smile in her voice as she agreed. "I ought." She stroked his forehead, brushing the curls matted to the sweat-slick skin. "Did the gods send you a dream?"

"There are no gods," he grumbled. He had never placed his faith in any gods made by men. He afforded the seven-pointed star of the Faith the same courtesy as he would the weirwoods of the North or the Drowned God of the Ironborn for they were all alike to him. He would bow to no gods that he had not seen with his own eyes. "How many times will you have me repeat it?"

"There are gods and there are _gods_ ," she said easily. "You have your gods as all men do, Rhaegar. Yours are but spun of air, your dreams and your prophecies."

That was unfair, grievously unfair. "They are hardly my gods," he insisted. "I take them for warnings, as they are, but I do not mount them on pedestals in my heart."

She laughed. "Not yet," she warned him. "Not yet."

"Say never in place of not yet," he retorted. "Do you take me for a-" He was about to say 'a fool' but he stopped abruptly. _You hold faith in no gods,_ he reminded himself again. Again and again and always again. _Will you call yourself a god and not a man?_

"Hush," she said. "I am sick unto death of this folly. Gods and men, men and gods, always circling back to the same points and the same arguments, like a snake biting it's own tail." When he was weary of the world, when he would rather be alone with only his sad thoughts for company, he would retreat to the burnt shell of Summerhall. Even she, who seemed to know him best, could not go there with him. And when he returned, he would always bring a song for the others but for her he would bring his questions.

 _And yet, my answers never do please him,_ she thought. _So why does he bring them to me?_

Presently, she asked him, "Will you not tell me about your dream?"

 _Do I not always?_ He slid his arms around her, resting his head against her shoulder. Spring-green silk and soft skin, fragrant with the lemongrass oils that she loved best.

"I dreamt-" It was hard to begin, but soon the words tumbled out as they always did in her presence. "I dreamt of a young maid in armour, mail and plate, so fierce that no man might withstand her. Fair was she to look upon, but the price of her smile was a river that ran red with blood. And I dreamt that same maid on a bed of rose petals, black with death and red with blood, but she had been mauled and ripped open by a dragon."

"Rhaenys?" Elia asked quietly. Her first thought was for their daughter. As any mother or woman with a sound mind should think. 

"What?"

"Could it have been Rhaenys?"

"I am ... uncertain," he said slowly. Though he had to acknowledge that she might have the right of it - she often had. "Though it might have been - the maid was comely." He smiled at her and added, "Rhaenys will have her mother's beauty in time."

"Your father thinks not. He thinks Rhaenys too dark, her colouring smells too much of Dorne," she said dryly. "And he mourns that you did not have a proper sister to wed, a true Valyrian beauty who could have borne you daughters as golden as the sun."

He pinched her cheek. "No onecould bring me greater happiness than you have," he said.

She was silent for a while but when she spoke her voice was sad. "It is not happiness you need," she said gently. "You could do well enough about happiness."

"Yes, but it's rather a comfortable thing once you get used to it." _._ It was strange, how sharp and clean the line that separated his life before and since his marriage was. _A lifetime,_ he thought. _What would have become of me?_

"You _could_ do with a few other children, though."

 _The dragon must have three heads._ He did not attempt to deny it, but he tried to soften the blow for her. "They will come... in time. We are still quite young." Laughing, light-footed Elia would always be young, but he - had he ever been young? _I must have been,_ he thought. _But I cannot remember how it was, more's the pity._

" _You_ are young," Elia retorted. "Not me." There was something in her voice that made him sit up straighter.

"You have seen a maester?"

She buried her head in the crock of his neck in answer.

 _I should have expected this,_ he thought as cold dread gripped his heart. _If I were the god the people believed me to be, I would have seen this._ He kept his voice neutral as he asked her, "And he said?"

She gave a bitter laugh. "Oh something you've likely seen in your scrolls, black with prophecy, or in your dreams, no doubt. You do not need me to tell you."

"I would much rather hear it from your lips."

Her voice was muffled as she answered. "By his chain he promised me that the next child I bear may be my last." _And no doubt the Lannisters, Tywin Lannister in particular, will be the first to rejoice._

 _The dragon must have three heads._ "I see," he said steadily.

"You see everything," she said bitterly.

"Almost," he agreed. "But not quite." _And perhaps that is a blessing - if I had seen everything that would come to pass, like Daenys the Dreamer, I might've gone mad and refused to marry you._  He rose abruptly and threw open the shutters. It seemed to have grown darker, though it was near time for the sun to rise. _It is only my imagination,_ he thought. Elia groaned and buried her head under the pillows for there was a chill in the air. He loved early mornings. She hated them.

"I shall question him again," he announced, though he knew it would do no good. Elia had always been fragile and Rhaenys' birth, though it had been a year ago, had sapped her strength. Indeed, the Lannisters seemed to be dividing their time between stalking his poor younger brothers and his poor wife - a Jaehaerys, a Viserys or a Rhaegar? That was the question.

_And poison the answer, no doubt, in sweet Lady Cersei's mind._

She'd lifted her head from the pillows. "You'd do better to spend your time hunting for a wife."

"Elia," he said, thinking at first that she was wroth. Upset. _In her place, I would be, too._

"Rhaegar," she replied dryly. "Your sweet wife is not wroth. She is trying to be wise as her good husband taught her to be." She climbed out of bed and once again he was struck by how thin and weak she seemed. _She seemed so much stronger last night,_ he thought. _When we were-_

He put his arm around her shoulders as she crossed the room, her bedrobe flapping about her, to stand by him at the windows. "Aegon the Conqueror took both his sisters to wife. Two wives," she said. "Why should you not?"

"I-" he was at a loss for words. _Why not?_ a part of him whispered. _She has the right of it. She may not bear me anymore trueborn children but there are other women._ "It would be an insult to you," was all he could come up with. "A transgression to our marital bond."

"I suggested it to you first," she reminded him. "I think I'll survive."

"The Faith would never stand for it." _Polygamy is but another adultery in their eyes._

"They stood it from Aegon."

"Aegon was a true to his name; a conqueror. And he had dragons. Not even a septon is stupid enough to argue with dragons."

"The Faith would rather stand behind Good King Rhaegar and his gentle queens and their messianic children than an avalanche of white walkers," she said companionably. "The dragon must have three heads, remember?"

He had to smile at that. "Have you a gentle queen in mind for me, my lady?"

"Not yet, no," she said. "But you may want to consider -"

"Not Cersei Lannister," he pleaded. _Though it would please Tywin to no end. Daughters as golden as the sun._

"Would you like Ashara Dayne any better?" she teased him. Ashara was one of her ladies-in-waiting and her closest friends. That sounded more insulting. "The blood of Old Valyria - she is almost a sister to you in her looks, though her hair is dark."

"Arthur's sister?" he asked, bewildered. "She's practically a child."

"She's quite close to your age," Elia reminded him. "Hardly a child."

"Nonetheless a child," he said dismissively. He squeezed her waist. "I have grown too used to a woman to bed a little girl."

She began to laugh but suddenly she stopped abruptly. "Rhaegar, you fool!" she cried. "Gods, but you are a fool." She grabbed his shoulder and forced him to bend down to her height. It was a good height to bend down to - he was tall and Elia was... well she was not a dwarf at least. "Your dream!" she said. "The young maid!"

In a flash, he saw it as she had seen it. "Mauled and slit open by a dragon," he said slowly. "Yes... but she was... armoured too. Young maids in armour will be hard to come across."

"It need hardly mean a knight's armour," she said dismissively. "It might mean a young maid with warrior's blood or one who bears a warrior's burden."

He thought about it. "The women of the hill tribes of the Vale?" he suggested. "They are said to fight as fiercely as their men."

"She might not be of the Seven Kingdoms," Elia said. "Think of the wildling women beyond the Wall. Or... in Essos and Sothoryos there are women who are fabled as warriors as the Rhoynish queens were, in Meeren such slaves."

Somehow he was not convinced. "She will be a woman of Westeros," he said. "I feel certain of that much." _And yet,_ a sly voice whispered, _once you were quite as certain that you were the Prince who was Promised._

Elia bit her lip and thought about it. "The ironborn?" she asked. "In the old ages, their mothers rowed longships alongside their fathers."

"The Dornish?" he suggested. "You will know them better than I. Perhaps some high house that can claim descent from the warriors of Rhoyne?"

"I shall see about it," she promised. _And Nymeria, the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, brought her ten thousand ships to land in Dorne ..._ it had been her favourite story as a child, though the gods knew that she was hardly fashioned to be a warrior. _I was fashioned to be a nothing,_ she thought bitterly. _I am not even woman enough to give you the children you need._

As though he could sense her gloom, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Smile," he said. "It- Elia, look." But he needn't have told her, because she had already seen it, she would have been blind not to see... _Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight, blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay..._

The comet streaked through the sky, like a splash of blood, blossoming like some strange, poisonous flower in the darkness, hot and bright as dragonflame. _Fire and blood,_ she thought as she shielded her eyes. _Gods above, what does it mean?_

"Rhaegar-" she whispered, as his grip on her shoulders tightened. _  
_

His voice was curiously hollow as he whispered the words of the prophecy that had marked his life. "When the red star bleeds and the darkness gathers ...."

* * *

**_Lyanna_ **

She crept out of the shadows as stealthily as a boar on the rampage. He sighed and called out to her, "Shouldn't you be abed, little sister?"

Her voice was indignant as she slipped over to him. "How did you know it was me?"

"Lyanna, sweetling, I've tracked _armies_ that were more inconspicuous than you." It was true too - Lord Jon had often made them enact mock battles to sharpen their skills. Ned and Elbert had captained and led a fair few armies to victory in his time but Robert had been the one who was truly invincible - or as close as you could get to that. If he could curb his rashness and temper his chivalry, he had the makings of a fine commander.

"I'll improve," she said easily as she sat down next to him.

"You don't need to improve," he pointed out. "It's absurd for you to improve because- what?" he asked, annoyed, as she began to tug at his arm.

"Hug me," she demanded. "It's cold here. Brrrrrrr-" she added, for effect.

"Go back to bed then," he said, but still he lifted his arm obligingly and put it around her shoulders. "Or... fetch a shawl at the least."

"If I run back to fetch a shawl you'd _leave_ ," she complained. "And I want to sit here and talk with you!"

"You can always talk with me," he said mildly.

"Yes," she agreed. "But not in the dark."

"Why does it need to be dark?" he asked, amused.

He felt her shrug as she said, "I don't know but it's... friendlier, don't you think? When it's dark and you can't see anyone else's face so you can say what you want and- I'm babbling, aren't I?"

He nodded. "Late nights never agreed with you. You'll be too tired to ride to Harrenhal tomorrow morning if you stay up for long."

She giggled. "I'm _never_ too tired to ride."

_Well, that's true enough._

"And I can always catch up on sleep at Harrenhal, or even Riverrun once we go there," she said. "It'll be all to the best if I'm asleep half the time, at Riverrun."

"It would make things more peaceful," he agreed. She was still shivering slightly, so he rubbed her back. "Was that why you left your warm bed for the cold ground? In the name of peace?"

"No," she said. "I just wanted to see if the night sky were as any different in the South than the North." Her voice turned sheepish. "And I wonder if I'll ever see any other kingdoms. If I do marry Robert, I may be able to see Dorne, if possible. Or maybe go to King's Landing and see the Red Keep or possibly see the Free Cities. I know that the Stormlands often do trade and the like with them and sail the Narrow Sea. It also made me wonder if we all stare at the same night sky or if it's all different to them, different as the Gods we worship. It's just so-"

"Strange? Something must be on your mind then. Go on, you can tell me," Ned said with a smile.

"Robert will likely bind me to do his bidding. Be a good wife and a good mother. I'm not sure if I'd ever be a good mother, but Robert can't take the children's names, cant' he? I can at least do that, right? I'd want my children to be as strong as the name they are given. And I know that they can be. Would ... that be alright?"

"Robert might not care about the names. He might just let you name them. Although, if he had a son first, I'd think he'd name him Jon, for Jon Arryn." Ned said. He knew that Robert barely came for Mya's birth and didn't think of the name himself. When her mother presented him with her and told her her name, all Robert commented was that it was a beautiful name for a beautiful girl. 

"Jon. It's a nice name, a simple name but powerful too. Although, I might want to name my second son something different; something meaningful to me."

"Mayhaps you'll have your own Brandon? Little Brandon Baratheon?" Ned teased.

"Or mayhaps Edric. Have our own Little Ned Baratheon!" Lyanna japed at him as she reached for his hand. 

"Or for Father or Ben if you choose so."

"Robert may think it too traditional and boring."

"What if your child was a girl? Mayhaps ... Barra? Or ... Arlanna?"

"I never thought on what I would name a daughter. But then again, I'd never thought that I'd marry. And I wouldn't give her such a horrible name like ... Arlanna! If I could, I'd have them be raised like the Mormonts. Maege had always been a good friend when she came to Winterfell. Maege sounds good. Mayhaps?" Lyanna said with uncertainty. 

"You said you wanted your children to be as strong as the names they're given. How about ... Nymeria? She was a Warrior Queen." He made a face at his sister. "I'll let  _my_ daughters fight and they'll be the greatest knights in the world, just after their brothers-" Lyanna swatted him as she would a fly.

"Nymeria might suit." She sounded doubtful. "I do like the story but not the name."

"Or Daena," Ned suggested. "For Daena the Defiant."

"It's a Targaryen name," Lyanna protested.

"And it's a half-Targaryen you'll be wedding," he teased her, suddenly thinking of Robert's lineage. My nieces and nephews will have the blood of lightning storms, winter snows and fire.

"... I think I've found the perfect name for my daughter," she said as proudly as though she actually had a daughter to name. "It's beautiful. There was a minstrel playing at the Manderlys' tourney and he played 'Flowers of Spring' for us and-"

"Trust you to find a name in a song."

"-Yes, trust me, and there was a lady in the song was named Sansa. And my sweet Sansa won't be jilted like Lord Cregan's daughter. So there," she said. "My first daughter's going to be named Sansa. How do you like it?"

"Pretty," he said and meant it. "If you tire of the name, I could find a use for it."

"You can't use my name!" she protested.

"Watch me," he said dryly. "If I have a daughter before you do I'll be sure to name her Sansa if only to spite you."

She giggled and then said, "Why are you still up, Ned?"

He thought about it. "Perhaps the same reason as you," he said. "I like the quiet, I like the dark. The stars, too. Quiet was always hard to come by at the Eyrie." He'd craved the stillness of the godswood then but there were no godswoods, such as northmen kept, in the Eyrie, only a garden ringed by white towers. No heart-trees to kneel before, no weirwoods to look up to. "And you, little sister? You've given me two reasons, good ones, both of them but what's the third?"

"I just wanted to talk to you." She drew out the words slowly, carefully as though they were golden dragons that she was drawing from the chest of her heart. "I thought it might be easier in the dark."

"You did something foolhardy and stupid, didn't you?"

"NO! But in case you were wondering from before, I am still a maiden. I was only japing. But I did kiss someone. It was before I was betrothed."

"I figured as much. On both parts. Who did you kiss? A wandering minstrel? A hedge knight? Harwin? Or mayhaps one of the stable boys?" 

"... Jory." she said sheepishly. That had surprised him. Jory Cassel was the youngest of Martyn Cassel's sons after Errold, and lost his other two sons in the cradle. He recalled him well enough, close of an age to Ben. Rather slight of build and a endless amount of joy, constantly running around and bothering his father and uncle Rodrik to no end. But that was not on his sister's mind. 

"Would Robert still want me ... if I wasn't a maiden though? I still am but Old Nan said that because of my riding that I ..."

"You'll be fine. We'll talk more in the morn."

* * *

**_Brandon_ **

Though the five towers of Harrenhal could never stand proud again after the burning by the dragons, their sheer size still took the breath away. Benjen claimed that he had read the castle was built for giants, not men. Though Brandon scoffed, Ned had played along with him and said that it was not out of the realm of possibility.

Under Harrenhal's dark, gloomy shadow, colorful tents were scattered across the field, with standards waving proudly under the gentle breeze. The servants of House Whent were still busy carrying out the finishing touches to the jousting lanes. A great din could be heard far away from the sprawling tent city.

As one, the Northern contingent slowed to a halt a short distance away from the spectacle, as if almost unsure of its place. Two hundred strong, with Starks, Karstarks, Dustins, Mormonts, Manderlys, and Umbers, in truth most had no experience of jousting. The North frowned upon such Southern prancing and pivoting, such that only himself, William Dustin and few others were to enter the lists. The Boltons and Flints had even declined their invitations, stating disinterest. For the Reeds, an invitation was sent, with no reply. However, most Houses were still keen on the melee. But all had stopped and bunched together in solidarity, peering suspiciously at the jovial southerners.

"Lords! Sers! Welcome, welcome to Harrenhal!" Beaming from head to toe, Walter Whent marched purposefully towards his guests. "I'm sure you had a pleasant journey?" Met with wary nods, the head of House Whent carried on happily. "Whether your journey was smooth or not, it is of no significance now. I can from now on promise you ten days of unrelenting joy and happiness!"

"Except for those whose heads get bashed in the melee." Benjen murmured, receiving an elbow from Eddard.

"Come now! We have already set up your tents." Walter Whent was almost bouncing up and down with excitement as he guided the Northmen towards the uncountable tents . "Grand, is it not? All the people in the Seven Kingdoms gathered under Harrenhal!"

All the people in the Seven Kingdoms indeed. Not only the nobility, but the peasantry had turned out in full force to witness this grand gathering. Merchants with their wares had clogged the Kingsroad, while mummers and singers streamed towards Harrenhal for the chance to make their names famous all across Westeros. Ned was even convinced he had seen a red priest clad in armour during their approach.

The nobility themselves had spared no expense in showcasing their wealth and status. Knights clad in glittering armour,with freshly painted sigils on their shields, rode majestically beside the extravagant carriages of the wives and daughters. The retinue of one Southern Lord, consisting of squires, pages, servants and ladies-in-waiting, was already larger than the whole Northern party. The peasantry gazed in awe as they clattered past, with maidens chattering excitedly at the sight of another handsome knight.

As the Northern party entered the tent city, Eddard noticed the large number of tents allocated to each house. There were too many sigils for Eddard to recognize them all, but he could glean that every major house had sent someone of significance.

From the Westerlands, the golden lion of House Lannister fluttered upon a pole. Three men-at-arms with House Marbrand's flaming tree strolled past in the opposite direction. A Knight encoated with the six shells of Westerling, a House rich no more, had to endure the jeers of commoners with his mismatched set of armour. Benjen seemed surprised about the notable absence of House Reyne and Tarbeck, before being quietly reminded by Lyanna that Tywin Lannister had killed them all.

The men of the Vale was always a welcome sight with Ned after his wardship there. Though far off at the edge of the sprawling tents, Ned recognized the sky-blue falcon of House Arryn anywhere. The banners of House Royce fluttered on Arryn's right, while the broken wheel of Waynwood stood proudly on its left. Other houses of the Vale he had seen, Hunter and Grafton, but most were too far off to be recognizable. Ned's better at that shit than me. 

The Reach was always in for a good jousting, he jested, and Ned could only agree. It was almost if every house of the Reach had turned up. The flowery knights of House Tyrell puffed out their chests to entice the swooning and fawning of the ladies, alongside the leering archers of House Tarly. A man with the apple of House Fossoway greeted another with the prominent ears of a Florent heartily.

 

The number of Riverlords rivaled those of the Reach. On their home ground, the Rivermen were determined to show their best. Besides the Whents and the ever present Freys, the sighting of the trout of House Tully brought a grimace to Brandon's face.

Lyanna snickered beside him. "Thinking about your betrothed? I almost feel sorry for her. I'd hate to upset her with another bastard."

Brandon gave her the evil eye while Nedbrought a tight smile to bear.

"How about the Blackfish? Will he come?" Benjen chattered excitedly on his horse.

"Brynden Tully?" Ned replied, "I doubt he'll be interested. Besides, from what I heard from Jon Arryn, he still has bad blood with his lord brother Hoster Tully. Come now, we won't reach our tents if we look for every famous knight."

The Northern company passed by the exotic Dorish with their outlandish armour. The Northmen were uncomfortable with the warm weather, but some Dorish still looked uneasy even with a few more layers of clothing on them. The Sun and Spear of House Martell was the most prominent, with Houses Allyrion, Manwoody and Qorgyle to its flanks. The falling star of Dayne was right next to the main tent of the Martells.

"Where are the Targaryens?" Benjen wondered aloud.

"Not here." A booming voice answered, followed by the womanly laughter from the many admirers of the speaker.

A rare true smile appeared on Ned's face. Leaping down from his horse, he was immediately forced into a crushing embrace. "Ned!!" Ned's face was smudged into the broad chest of of the rather broad boy. "Nice to see you too, Robert." He choked out.

"And what about us then? Forgot us already, Ned?!" said a rather mocking voice. The two blond youths had ridden their horses hard and leapt off, pulling Ned into yet another hug. I'm not sure he's my brother sometimes. He may be more Andal than Northman...

He then found himself distracted by the sight of the castle. Harrenhal was exactly as he imagined, albeit it was more vast than anything his mind could conjure. It was easily three times bigger than Winterfell, which to Brandon had been unfathomable until they arrived.

His father had sent him and his siblings to 'the greatest tourney that ever was' - so the small folk were proclaiming it, to represent House Stark among the other great houses in Rickard's absence. Though Brandon knew his father also had other motives;

_" For the last time. You. Are. Betrothed! You are to stay away from that girl Brandon!"_

_"I know father, I meant no harm by it truly -"_

_"Oh of course you didn't Brandon, but harm it caused none the less!" His father sounded hoarse with frustration. The prominent wrinkles in his forehead deepening in the all too familiar manner Brandon  had recognized as disappointment._

_People he never even knew said he was the wild one of the pack, they had started saying it before he could even remember, and Gods, did he live up to the title. Brandon Stark drank, fought, whored and dishonoured his future banner men's daughters and a number of  wives a like. He loved it of course, and why wouldn't he? What man wouldn't? Brandon had yet to find a woman that would not raise her skirts for him or a man that could with stand him in a fight with only their flesh and bones for armour and weapons. Brandon Stark was the heir of Winterfell, future Lord Paramount of the North and everyone above the Neck knew it but oh, how he hated them for never letting him forget it._

_‘To think, some day we will be governed by a wild wolf that can’t even control his own cock’ their eyes would say, though their faces lied with fake smiles. 'Cravens!' He'd curse to himself; 'say what you mean or say nothing at all'. For sure most of the North loved him (though he was sure they would love anyone who bore the name Stark), they would laugh at his jokes and seem captivated with his stories but he knew for the most part that it was all just a show, an act to get closer to the future Lord of Winter. Truly, he despised them._

_When the same look of unworthiness lay in his father's eyes however, Brandon would feel a mixture of guilt and shame but still mostly, resentment._ I never asked to be born first! If the Gods had have given me a choice I would've chosen to come second, bare no responsibilities, have no duty, never get betrothed to a little girl for her father's armies! Be wild and free like the wolf everyone knew him to be, but alas, the Gods deemed that the most wild of the litter be restrained by the bounds of birth right and expectations. _Though surely they could foresee that sooner or later he was going to break loose as the beast inside him yearned to?_

_But then his father would sigh in that ‘Gods give me strength’ way he had and any anguish or self-righteousness Brandon had felt would melt away like the spring snow in the summer sun._

_“Forgive me father” he quietly pleaded, like he always had since he were a wee lad; “I cannot take back what I have done but I wish to redeem myself as best as I can. Be a father to Rodrik.”_

_Rickard sighed again as he reclined back into his twisted weirwood throne. Brandon smiled to himself; trying his best to stop the edges of his lips curling too much, least his amusement became apparent. After mulling over his son’s words Rickard narrowed his eyes at Brandon searchingly, as though he were looking for a lie;_

_“You do not love her?” Rickard asked, his eyes never leaving those of his son._

_The thought of it was the most ridiculous thing Brandon had ever heard of course, and though he would never laugh in his lord father’s face he couldn’t help the look of cocky defiance he gave him. As if it were a joke to assume Brandon Stark could ever fall in love._

_“I take the contortion in your face as a no then?”_

_“I ... I'm not entirely sure.”_

_“Then why boy? Why would you take a woman that is not yours? You know Lord Cletyon wishes to betroth her to Willam, I thought the boy was your friend –“_

_“William has been almost like a brother to me father, a woman surely won't come between us” he snapped defensively, quickly regretting it as his father raised himself from his seat again, an act of authority Brandon knew well to retreat from._

_“Then why did you go on and get her with child?!” Rickard roared, though he sounded more tired than angry._

_“It's not like I intended to do it” he whispered to the ground, for he did not dare look his lord father in the eyes right now; “yet, now I have a son; you have a grandchild you can dote on. And you must know what it's like Father? I am the future Lord of Winterfell, women wish to be the future Lady.” Brandon did not need to look up to know his father was boring accusatory holes into his skull ._

_“Nearly every northman from the Wall to the Neck knows I am betrothed to Lady Catelyn, father. And before you start” he added in a rush, knowing his father would likely have something to say like; ‘a man who is not ignorant of his crime, is indeed more guilty of it’, which at this moment, Brandon didn’t need to hear once more._

_“I am aware that I dishonoured her too, though that was never my intention.” He dared to raise his eyes from the point of his boot which he had been silently examining to lessen the intensity of this particular environment to look at his father, hoping his pleading eyes might inspire more forgiveness. His father was slouched back in his seat, tired and defeated._

_“It never is son” Rickard said with a sad smile, the only kind his father had since his lady mother died. Brandon was a man grown now, strong as a bull and as big as an ox, and yet he still went to his father’s feet like a small pup needing his master’s affections._

_His father smelt like weirwood, a comfort to him if there ever was any. In the many moons after his mother had died in the birthing bed, Brandon had cried himself to sleep in his father’s arms. ‘There, there boy’ he would whisper ‘you will see her again, one day, in the heavens’, Brandon had only cried even louder thinking ‘fuck the heavens’ though he did not voice such blaspheme to his father._

_“These women practically_ throw _themselves at me” Brandon said as he felt his father’s steady hand pat him on the head, giving him a new confidence to speak; “the last time I fell into the furs with Barbrey she had begged me to take her,_ literally _begged me on her knees!”_

_“On her knees?” His father asked in disbelief, though Brandon could hear the hint of amusement and jest in the depths of his voice._

_“Truly!” He swore, throwing his hands up in exasperation at his father’s sudden laughter. This truly was a burden for him; “Pray tell me, how am I meant to  ... deny that? When women snuck into your bedchambers under the shadow of the night and whispered sweet words of promise and endearment in your ears, how exactly did you refuse them?”_

_“My dear boy” Rickard finally managed through his dying amusement; “I was the lone wolf of Winterfell for many years and yet sadly” he said with a wink; “I cannot say I ever found myself in such questionable circumstances. Perhaps it is not only your title that the ‘women,’ as you say, are attracted to.”_

_Brandon scoffed indignantly; “Other than my title, they don’t even know me.”_

_“Then make them know you Brandon” his father said encouragingly; “you have much more to offer the world than just your ... services, my boy. You my son, my bold Bran” the words said with so much affection Brandon almost crawled into his father’s lap like a toddler does their mother; “have more heart than balls and if your ego is anything to go by you have more than enough of those.”_

_They laughed together heartily at that, no man would ever know his father knew  and engaged insuch humour but then no man ever knew his father quite like he did._

_“I wasn’t made for this father, you know that surely”_

_“Bran –“_

_“No father, please, Ned is more cut out for this than I. You know that, I know that, Lya and Ben know that, I'm certain that even Ne –“_

_“Brandon you cannot run away from who you are –“_

_“But father this is not me! I am no Lord –“_

_“No, not yet you’re not, but you will be” the finality in Rickard’s voice made Brandon second guess whether he should pursue this further, though he decided to ignore the warning tone in his father’s words and press on – as usual._

_“What if I’m not though father? What if I lead the North into peril and despair?”_

_“Then son” his father sighed; “I can only pray that the cause of your actions is righteous and in the end, you make peace with your own decisions.” They stayed still and silent for many moments with Brandon’s head leaning on his father’s knee as Rickard slowly petted him, like he were calming a wild animal._ _“You are to take your brother and sister to a tourney” Rickard said, breaking the calm silence that had over taken them._

_“A tourney?” He asked with perhaps more than a little enthusiasm._

_“But you are not to enter the melee.”_

_“What?!” Brandon suddenly whipped around to face his father with eyebrows furrowed, a dark grey storm suddenly brewing in his eyes; “But father melee is what I –“_

_“I will have no arguments Brandon, you will not enter the lists for melee and that is final.”_

_“So you expect me to just sit there and watch!?”_

_“Of course not, you may enter the jousting lists if you wish. I_ _will have no such madness Brandon Stark, for I assure you” his father interrupted, his voice suddenly stern and intimidating again; “punishment will be severe.”_

 

_“But –“_

_“Silence!” Rickard finally yelled, angry at the defiance of his son. More than a few times had Brandon been commanded so by his lord father, and every time it had its desired effect. Silence._

 

_“ Once your time is well spent there, you are to spend your free time with Lady Catelyn and Lord Tully to make up for your past indiscretions.” Brandon noted the way his father said ‘past’ with more emphasis than needed, but he understood._

_“Yes father”_

_“And remember to watch over your brothers and sister. Winter will be coming, and soon. When the snows fall and the white winds blow,”_

 

_“And the lone wolf dies but the pack survives” Brandon finished._

_“Aye” his father agreed sadly, rising to take Brandon by the shoulders; “you understand what I have asked of you son?”_

_“Yes father” Brandon huffed, he wasn’t pleased of course but for now he would obey._

And so here he was, fulfilling his father’s wishes and experiencing the excitement of travelling places he had only ever heard of. So was the lot of the first born son, being trapped within the realm which they govern, whilst every son after might go from the Wall to Qarth and back, if only he so pleases. His father had hoped that sending him to this tourney would sate some of his brashness and perhaps his time together with his betrothed would sate his **_fondness_ ** of women – though Brandon highly doubted any of that.

The Arryn's came closer to them, acting as cordial as ever. They practically hovered over Ned. As much as he understand that they likely think of him like a son and brother in arms, he couldn't help but feel a distance between him and his brother. Even more so, Ned seemed happier and at ease with them than with him. 

"Oy, Stark! What's with that look on your face? Shit your britches or has winter finally come?" Elbert jested.

“Aye Arryn” he eventually answered with the wolfish smirk that made him infamous; “winter is coming”

Aye, he thought more seriously to himself – though he would never know how right he was, until it was already too late.

Winter is coming.


End file.
